THE  RE-CREATION 
of  BRIAN  KENT 


HAROLD 
BELL  WRIGHT 


EM 
Mary  J.    L.    McDonald 


: 
^ 

A. 


THE  RE-CREATION 
OF  BRIAN  KENT 


Books  by  HAROLD  BELL  WRIGHT 

Philadelphia  Sunday  Dispatch— "The  secret 
of  his  power  is  the  same  God-given  secret 
that  inspired  Shakespeare  and  upheld  Dick 
ens." 

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that  has  made  Mr.  Wright's  books  among  the 
most  remarkable  works  of  the  present  age." 

THAT     PRINTER     OF     UDELL'S 
Illustrations  by  Gilbert 

THE    SHEPHERD    OF    THE    HILLS 

Illustrations  by  Cootes 

THE   CALLING   OF   DAN    MATTHEWS 
Illustrations  by  Keller 

THE  WINNING  OF  BARBARA  WORTH 
Illustrations  by  Cootes 

THEIR         YESTERDAYS 
Illustrations  by  Cootes 

THE     EYES     OF     THE     WORLD 

Illustrations  by  Cootes 

WHEN     A      MAN'S      A      MAN 

Illustrations  and  Decorations 

by  the  Author 

THE   RE-CREATION   OF  BRIAN   KENT 

Illustrations  by  St.  John 

The  above  are  uniformly  bound 
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THE     UNCROWNED     KING 

Illustrations  by  Neill.     i6mo. 
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The  RE-CREATION 
OF  BRIAN  KENT 

A  NOVEL 


BT 

HAROLD    BELL   WRIGHT 


"THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS" 
"WHEN  A  MAN'S  A  MAN" 

ETC.,  ETC. 


Illustrations  by 
J.  ALLEN  ST.  JOHN 


THE    BOOK    SUPPLY    COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS,  CHICAGO 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

Copyright,  1919 
By  HAROLD  BELL  WRIGHT 

Copyright,  1919 
By  ELSBERY  W.  REYNOLDS 

All  Rights  Reserved 


Published  August,  1919 
Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


DEAR  AUNTIE  SUE: 

I  have  wondered  many  times,  while  writing  this  simple 
story  of  life  and  love,  if  you  would  ever  forgive  me  for  put 
ting  you  in  a  book.  I  hope  you  will,  because  if  you  do  not, 
I  shall  be  heartbroken,  and  you  wouldn't  want  me  that  way, 
would  you,  Auntie  Sue? 

I  fancy  I  can  hear  you  say:  "But,  Harold,  how  could 
you!  You  know  I  never  did  the  things  you  have  made  me 
do  in  your  story.  You  know  I  never  lived  in  a  little  log 
house  by  the  river  in  the  Ozark  Mountains!  What  in  the 
world  will  people  think!" 

Well,  to  tell  the  truth,  dear,  I  don't  care  so  very  much 
what  people  think  if  only  they  will  love  you;  and  that  they 
are  sure  to  do,  because,  —  well,  just  because  —  You  must 
remember,  too,  that  you  will  be  eighty-seven  years  old  the 
eighteenth  of  next  November,  and  it  is  therefore  quite  time 
that  someone  put  you  in  a  book. 

And,  after  all,  Auntie  Sue,  are  you  very  sure  that  you 
have  never  lived  in  a  little  log  house  by  the  river,  —  are  you 
very  sure,  Auntie  Sue? 

Forgive  my  impertinence,  as  you  have  always  forgiven 
me  everything;  and  love  me  just  the  same,  because  I  have 
written  only  in  love  of  the  dearest  Auntie  Sue  in  the  world! 


The  Glenwood  Mission  Inn, 
Riverside,  California, 
April  30,  1919. 


5 

984474 


'And  see  the  rivers,  hovj  they  run 
Through  woods  and  meads,  in  shade  and  sun, 
Sometimes  swift,  sometimes  slow, — 
Wave  succeeding  wave,  they  go 
A  various  journey  to  the  deep 
Like  human  life  to  endless  sleep!" 

John  Dyer—"Grongar  Hill." 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.     A  REMABKABLB  WOMAN 13 

II.     THE  MAN  IN  THB  DAM 23 

III.     A  MISSING  LBTTBB .  34 

IY.     THE  WILL  o»  THB  *ITI* 49 

V.       AUSTTIB    SUB  B»<X>eBIZB»   A   GENTLE- 

MA^"     52 

VI.     Ii*  THB  LOG  Housa  »T  TH»  RIYEB.  .  67 

VII.     OFFICEBS  oy  THJI  LAW 77 

VTII.     THAT  WHICH  I»  G»BAT»«  THAJT  THE 

LATT 91 

IX.     AUNTIB  SUB' 3  PROPOSITION 104 

X.     BRIAN  KENT  Dicnm* 119 

XI.     EE-CREATION   133 

XII.     AUNTIE  Su>  TAKES  A  CHANCE.  .    .  .  151 

XIII.  JUDY  TO  THB  RBSCUB 158 

XIV.  BETTY  Jo  CONSIDERS.  .  175 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XV.  A  MATTER  OF  BUSINESS 196 

XVI.  THE  SECRET  OF  AUNTIE  SUE'S  LIFE  211 

XVII.  AN  AWKWARD  SITUATION 225 

XVIII.  BETTY  Jo  FACES  HERSELF 236 

XIX.  JUDY'S  CONFESSION 244 

XX.  BRIAN  AND  BETTY  Jo  KEEP  HOUSE.   257 

XXI.  THE  WOMAN  AT  THE  WINDOW 269 

XXII.  AT  THE  EMPIRE  CONSOLIDATED  SAV 
INGS  BANK 287 

XXIII.  IN  THE  ELBOW  ROCK  RAPIDS 300 

XXIV.  JUDY'S  RETURN   320 

XXV.  THE   RIVER 326 


10 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

BETTY  Jo .Frontispiece 

"LOOK,  JUDY  !  LOOK  !" 40 

AUNTIE  SUE  SAID,  SOFTLY,  "SHE  DID  NOT  UNDER 
STAND,  BBIAN"   148 

SHE  MADE  THE  LITTLE  BOOK  OF  PAIN 
FUL  MEMORIES  A  BOOK  OF  JOYOUS  PKOMISE .  .    328 


11 


We 

Re-Creation  of  Brian  Kent 


CHAPTER  I. 

A  REMARKABLE  WOMAN. 

REMEMBER  as  well  as  though  it  were  ves- 
terday  the  first  time  I  met  Auntie  Sue. 

It  happened  during  my  first  roaming  visit 
to  the  Ozarks,  when  I  had  wandered  by  chance,  one 
day,  into  the  Elbow  Kock  neighborhood.  Twenty 
years  it  was,  at  least,  before  the  time  of  this  story. 
She  was  standing  in  the  door  of  her  little  schoolhouse, 
the  ruins  of  which  you  may  still  see,  halfway  up  the 
long  hill  from  the  log  house  by  the  river,  where  the 
most  of  this  story  was  lived. 

It  was  that  season  of  the  year  when  the  gold  and 
brown  of  our  Ozark  Hills  is  overlaid  with  a  filmy  veil 
of  delicate  blue  haze  and  the  world  is  hushed  with 
the  solemn  sweetness  of  the  passing  of  the  summer. 
And  as  the  old  gentlewoman  stood  there  in  the  open 
door  of  that  rustic  temple  of  learning,  with  the  deep- 

13 


TtiE  HE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

"shadowed,  woo'ded  hillside  in  the  background,  and,  in 
front,  the  rude  clearing  with  its  crooked  rail  fence 
along  which  the  scarlet  sumac  flamed,  I  thought, — • 
as  I  still  think,  after  all  these  years, — that  I  had 
never  before  seen  such  a  woman. 

Fifty  years  had  gone  into  the  making  of  that 
sterling  character  which  was  builded  upon  a  foun 
dation  of  many  generations  of  noble  ancestors.  With 
out  home  or  children  of  her  own,  the  life  strength 
of  her  splendid  womanhood  had  been  given  to  the 
teaching  of  boys  and  girls.  An  old-maid  school 
teacher?  Yes, — if  you  will.  But,  as  I  saw  her 
standing  there  that  day, — tall  and  slender,  dressed  in 
a  simple  gown  that  was  fitting  to  her  work, — there 
was  a  queenly  dignity,  a  stately  sweetness,  in  her 
bearing  that  made  me  feel,  somehow,  as  if  I  had  come 
unexpectedly  into  the  presence  of  royalty,  Not  the 
royalty  of  caste  and  court  and  station  with  their  glit 
tering  pretenses  of  superiority  and  their  superficial 
claims  to  distinction, — I  do  not  mean  that;  I  mean 
that  true  royalty  which  needs  110  caste  or  court  or  sta 
tion  but  makes  itself  felt  because  it  is. 

She  did  not  notice  me  at  first,  for  the  noise  of  the 
children  at  play  in  the  yard  covered  the  sound  of 

14 


THE  KE-CKEATION  OF  BKIAX  KENT 

my  approach,  and  she  was  looking  far,  far  away, 
over  the  river  which  lay  below  at  the  foot  of  the 
hill;  over  the  forest-clad  mountains  in  the  glory  of 
their  brown  and  gold;  over  the  vast  sweep  of  the 
tree-crowned  Ozark  ridges  that  receded  wave  after 
wave  into  the  blue  haze  until,  in  the  vastness  of  the 
distant  sky,  they  were  lost.  And  something  made 
me  know  that,  in  the  moment's  respite  from  her 
task,  the  woman  was  looking  even  beyond  the  sky 
itself. 

Her  profile,  clean-chiselled,  but  daintily  formed, 
was  beautiful  in  its  gentle  strength.  Her  hair  was 
soft  and  silvery  like  the  gray  mist  of  the  river  in 
the  morning.  Then  she  turned  to  greet  me,  and  I 
saw  her  eyes.  Boy  that  I  was  then,  and  not  given 
overmuch  to  serious  thought,  I  knew  that  the  high, 
unwavering  purpose,  the  loving  sympathy,  and  tender 
understanding  that  shone  in  the  calm  depth  of  those 
eyes  could  belong  only  to  one  who  habitually  looks 
unafraid  beyond  all  earthly  scenes.  Only  those  who 
have  learned  thus  to  look  beyond  the  material  horizon 
of  our  little  day  have  that  beautiful  inner  light  which 
shone  in  the  eyes  of  Auntie  Sue — the  teacher  of  a 
backwoods  school. 

15 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN"  KENT 

Auntie  Sue  had  come  to  the  Elbow  Rock  neighbor 
hood  the  summer  preceding  that  fall  when  I  first 
met  her.  She  had  grown  too  old,  she  said,  with  her 
delightful  little  laugk,  to  be  of  much  use  in  the 
larger  schools  of  tke  more  thickly  populated  sec 
tions  of  the  country.  But  she  was  still  far  too  young, 
she  stoutly  maintained,  to  be  altogether  useless. 

Tom  Warden,  who  lived  just  over  the  ridge  from 
the  schoolhouse,  and  who  was  blessed  with  the  largest 
wife,  the  largest  family,  and  the  most  pretentious 
farm  in  the  county,  had  kinsfolk  somewhere  in  Illi 
nois.  Through  these  relatives  of  the  Ozark  farmer 
Miss  Susan  Wakefield  had  learned  of  the  needs  of 
the  Elbow  Rock  school,  and  so,  finally,  had  come 
into  the  hills.  It  was  the  influential  Tom  who 
secured  for  her  tke  modest  position.  It  was  the 
motherly  Mrs.  Tom  wko  made  her  at  home  in  the 
Warden  household.  It  was  the  Warden  boys  and 
girls  who  first  called  her  "Auntie  Sue."  But  it  was 
Auntie  Sue  herself  who  won  so  large  a  place  in  the 
hearts  of  the  simple  mountain  folk  of  the  district 
that  she  held  her  position  year  after  year,  until  she 
finally  gare  up  teaching  edtogether. 

Not  one  of  her  Ozark  friends  ever  came  to  know 
16 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

in  detail  the  history  of  this  remarkable  woman's  life. 
It  was  known  in  a  general  way  that  she  was  born 
in  Connecticut ;  that  she  had  a  brother  somewhere  in 
some  South- American  country ;  that  two  other  broth 
ers  hc.d  been  killed  in  the  Civil  War;  that  she  had 
taught  in  the  lower  and  intermediate  grades  of  pub 
lic  schools  in  various  places  all  the  years  of  her 
womanhood.  Also,  it  was  known  that  she  had  never 
married. 

"And  that,"  said  Uncle  Lige  Potter,  voicing  the 
unanimous  opinion  of  the  countryside,  "is  a  doggone 
funny  thing  and  plumb  unnatural,  considerin'  the 
kind  of  woman  she  is." 

To  which  Lem  Jordan, — who  was  then  living  with 
his  fourth  wife,  and  might  therefore  be  held  to 
speak  with  a  degree  of  authority, — added:  "Hit 
sure  is  a  dad  burned  shame,  an'  a  plumb  disgrace  to 
the  men  of  this  here  country,  when  you  come  to  look 
at  the  sort  of  wimmen  most  of  'em  are  a  marryin' 
most  of  the  time." 

Another  matter  of  universal  and  never-failing  in 
terest  to  the  mountain  folk  was  the  unprecedented 
number  of  letters  that  Auntie  Sue  received  and 
wrote.  That  some  of  these  letters  written  by  their 

17 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

backwoods  teacher  were  addressed  to  men  and  women 
of  such  prominence  in  the  world  that  their  names 
were  known  even  to  that  remote  Ozark  district  was' 
a  source  of  no  little  pride  to  Auntie  Sue's  immediate 
neighbors,  and  served  to  mark  her  in  their  eyec  with 
no  small  distinction. 

It  was  during  the  fourth  year  of  her  life  amid 
the  scenes  of  this  story, — as  I  recall  time, — that 
Auntie  Sue  invested  the  small  savings  of  her  working 
years  in  the  little  log  house  by  the  river  and  the 
eighty  acres  of  land  known  as  the  "Old  Bill  Wilson 
place." 

The  house  was  a  substantial  building  of  three 
rooms,  a  lean-to  kitchen,  and  a  porch  overlooking  the 
river.  The  log  barn,  with  "Prince,"  a  gentle  old 
horse,  and  "Bess,"  a  mild-mannered,  brindle  cow, 
completed  the  modest  establishment.  About  thirty 
acres  of  the  land  were  cleared  and  under  cultivation 
of  a  sort.  The  remaining  acreage  was  in  timber. 
The  price,  under  the  kindly  and  expert  supervision 
of  Tom  Warden,  was  fifteen  dollars  an  acre.  But 
Auntie  Sue  always  laughingly  insisted  that  she  really 
paid  fifty  cents  an  acre  for  the  land  and  fourteen 
dollars  and  a  half  an  acre  for  the  sunsets. 

18 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KE3TT 

The  tillable  land,  except  for  the  garden,  she  "let 
out  on  shares/7  always  under  the  friendly  guardian- 
chip  cf  neighbor  Tom;  while  Tom's  boys  cared  for 
the  little  garden  in  season,  and  saw  to  it  that  tha 
woodpile  was  always  ample  and  ready  for  the  stove. 
And,  in  addition  to  lliece  fixed  and  regular  homely 
services,  thero  were  many  offerings  of  helpful  hands 
whenever  other  needs  arose ;  for,  as  time  passed,  there 
came  to  be  in  all  the  Elbow  Rock  district  scarce  a 
man,  young  or  eld,  who  did  not  now  and  then  honor 
himself  by  doing  some  little  job  for  Auntie  Sue; 
while  the  women  and  girls,  in  the  same  neighborly 
spirit,  brought  from  their  own  humble  households 
many  tokens  of  their  loving  thoughtfulness.  And 
never  did  one  visit  that  little  log  house  by  the  river 
without  the  consciousness  of  something  received  from 
the  silvery-haired  old  teacher — a  something  intangi 
ble,  perhaps,  which  they  could  not  have  expressed  in 
words,  but  which,  nevertheless,  enriched  the  lives  of 
those  simple  mountain  people  with  a  very  real  joy 
and  a  very  tangible  happiness. 

For  six  years,  Auntie  Sue  continued  teaching  the 
Elbow  Rock  school ; — climbing  the  hill  in  the  morn 
ing  from  her  log  house  by  the  river  to  the  cabin 

19 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

schoolhouse  in  the  clearing  on  the  mountain-side 
above;  returning  in  the  late  afternoon,  when  her 
day's  work  was  over,  down  the  winding  road  to  her 
little  home,  there  to  watch,  from  the  porch  that  over 
looked  the  river,  the  sunset  in  the  evening.  And 
every  year  the  daily  climb  grew  a  little  harder;  the 
days  of  work  grew  a  little  longer;  she  went  down 
the  hill  in  the  afternoon  a  little  slower.  And  every 
year  the  sunsets  were  to  her  eyes  more  beautiful ;  the 
evening  skies  to  her  understanding  glowed  with  richer 
meaning;  the  twilight  hours  filled  her  heart  with  a 
deeper  peace. 

And  so,  at  last,  her  teaching  days  were  over;  that 
is,  she  taught  no  more  in  the  log  schoolhouse  in  the 
clearing  on  the  mountain-side.  But  in  her  little 
home  beside  the  river  she  continued  her  work;  not 
from  text-books,  indeed,  but  as  all  such  souls  must 
continue  to  teach,  until  the  sun  sets  for  the  last  time 
upon  their  mortal  days. 

Work-worn,  toil-hardened  mountaineer  mothers, 
whose  narrow  world  denied  them  so  many  of  the 
finer  thoughts  and  things,  came  to  counsel  with  this 
childless  woman,  and  to  learn  from  her  a  little  of  the 
art  of  contentment  and  happiness.  Strong  men,  of 

20 


THE  KE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

rude  dress  and  speech,  whose  lives  were  as  rough  as 
the  hills  in  which  they  were  reared,  and  whose 
thoughts  were  often  as  crude  as  their  half-savage  and 
sometimes  lawless  customs,  came  to  sit  at  the  feet 
of  this  gentle  one,  who  received  them  all  with  such 
kindly  interest  and  instinctive  understanding.  And 
young  men  and  girls  came,  drawn  by  the  magic  that 
was  hers,  to  confide  in  this  woman  who  listened  with 
such  rare  tact  and  loving  sympathy  to  their  troubles 
and  their  dreams,  and  who,  in  the  deepest  things  of 
their  young  lives,  was  mother  to  them  all. 

Nor  were  the  mountain  folk  her  only  disciples. 
Always  there  were  the  letters  she  continued  to  write, 
addressed  to  almost  every  corner  of  the  land.  And 
every  year  there  would  come,  for  a  week  or  a  month, 
at  different  times  during  the  summer,  men  and  women 
from  the  great  world  of  larger  affairs  who  had 
need  of  the  strength  and  courage  and  patience  and 
hope  they  never  failed  to  find  in  that  little  log  house 
by  the  river.  And  so,  in  time,  it  came  to  be  known 
that  those  letters  written  by  Auntie  Sue  went  to  men 
and  women  who,  in  their  childhood  school  days,  had 
received  from  her  their  first  lessons  in  writing;  and 
that  her  visitors,  many  of  them  distinguished  in  the 

21 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

world  of  railroads  and  cities,  were  of  that  large  circle 
of  busy  souls  who  had  never  ceased  to  be  her  pupils. 

Thus  it  came  that  the  garden  was  made  a  little 
larger,  and  two  rooms  were  added  to  the  house,  with 
other  modest  improvements,  to  accommodate  Auntie 
Sue's  grown-up  boys  and  girls  when  they  came  to 
visit  her.  But  never  was  there  a  hired  servant,  so 
that  her  guests  must  do  their  own  household  tasks, 
because,  Auntie  Sue  said,  that  was  good  for  them 
and  mostly  what  they  needed. 

It  should  also  be  said  here  that  among  her  many 
pupils  who  lived  beyond  the  sky-line  of  the  far,  blue 
hills,  not  one  knew  more  of  the  real  secret  of  Auntie 
Sue's  life  and  character  than  did  the  Ozark  moun 
taineers  of  the  Elbow  Rock  district,  among  whom  she 
had  chosen  to  pass  the  evening  of  her  day. 

Then  came  one  who  learned  the  secret.  He  learned 
— but  that  is  my  story.  I  must  not  tell  the  secret 
hera 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE  MAN  IN  THE  DARK. 

MAN  stood  at  a  window,  looking  out  into  the 
night.    There  was  no  light  in  the  room.    The 
stars  were  hidden  behind  a  thick  curtain  of 
sullen  clouds. 

The  house  was  a  wretchedly  constructed,  long- 
neglected  building  of  a  type  common  to  those  old 
river  towns  that  in  their  many  years  of  uselessness 
have  lost  all  civic  pride,  and  in  their  own  resultant 
squalor  and  filth  have  buried  their  self-respect.  A 
dingy,  scarcely  legible  sign  over  the  treacherous  board 
walk,  in  front,  by  the  sickly  light  of  a  smoke-grimed 
kerosene  lantern,  announced  that  the  place  was  a 
hotel. 

Dark  as  it  was,  the  man  at  the  window  could  see 
the  river.  The  trees  that  lined  the  bank  opposite  the 
town  were  mere  ghostly  shadows  against  the  gloomy 
masses  of  the  low  hills  that  rose  from  the  water's 
edge,  indistinct,  mysterious,  and  unreal,  into  the 
threatening  sky.  The  higher  mountains  that  reared 

23 


THE  KE-CKEATIOISr  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

their  crests  beyond  the  hills  were  invisible.  The 
stream  itself  swept  sullenly  through  the  night, — a 
resistless  flood  of  dismal  power,  as  if,  turbid  with 
wrecked  souls,  with  the  lost  hopes  and  ruined  dreams 
of  men,  it  was  fit  only  to  bear  vessels  freighted  with 
sorrow,  misfortune,  and  despair. 

The  manner  of  the  man  at  the  window  was  as  if 
some  woeful  spirit  of  the  melancholy  scene  were  call 
ing  him.  With  head  bowed,  and  face  turned  a  little 
to  one  side,  he  listened  intently  as  one  listens  to 
voices  that  are  muffled  and  indistinct.  He  pressed  his 
face  close  to  the  glass,  and  with  straining  eyes  tried 
to  see  more  clearly  the  ghostly  trees,  the  sombre  hills, 
and  the  gloomy  river.  Three  times  he  turned  from 
the  window  to  pace  to  and  fro  in  the  darkened  room, 
and  every  time  his  steps  brought  him  again  to  the 
casement,  as  if  in  obedience  to  some  insistent  voice 
that  summoned  him.  The  fourth  time,  he  turned 
from  the  window  more  quickly,  with  a  gesture  of 
assenting  decision. 

The  crackling  snap  of  a  match  broke  the  dead  still 
ness.  The  sudden  flare  of  light  stabbed  the  darkness. 
As  he  applied  the  tiny,  wavering  flame  to  the  wick 
of  a  lamp  that  stood  on  the  cheap,  old-fashioned 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

bureau,  the  man's  hand  shook  until  the  chimney  rat 
tled  against  the  wire  standards  of  the  burner.  Turn 
ing  quickly  from  the  lighted  lamp,  the  man  sprang 
again  to  the  window  to  jerk  down  the  tattered,  old 
shade.  Facing  about,  he  stood  with  his  back  to  the 
wall,  searching  the  room  with  wide,  fearful  eyes. 
His  fists  were  clenched.  His  chest  rose  and  fell 
heavily  with  his  labored  breathing.  His  face  worked 
with  emotion.  With  trembling  limbs  and  twitching 
muscles,  he  crouched  like  some  desperate  creature  at 
bay. 

But,  save  for  the  wretched  man  himself,  there  was 
in  that  shabby,  dingy-papered,  dirty-carpeted,  poorly 
furnished  apartment  no  living  thing. 

Suddenly,  the  man  laughed ; — and  it  was  the  reck 
less,  despairing  laughter  of  a  soul  that  feels  itself 
slipping  over  the  brink  of  an  abyss. 

With  hurried  step  and  outstretched  hands,  he 
crossed  the  room  to  snatch  a  bottle  of  whisky  from  its 
place  beside  the  lamp  on  the  bureau.  With  trembling 
eagerness,  he  poured  a  water  tumbler  half-full  of  the 
red  liquor.  As  one  dying  of  thirst,  he  drank.  Draw 
ing  a  deep  breath,  and  shaking  his  head  with  a  wry 
smile,  he  spoke  in  hoarse  confidence  to  the  image  of 

25 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

himself  in  the  dingy  mirror :  "They  nearly  had  me, 
that  time."  Again,  he  poured,  and  drank. 

The  whisky  steadied  him  for  the  moment,  and  with 
bottle  and  glass  still  in  hand,  he  regarded  himself 
in  the  mirror  with  critical  interest. 

Had  he  stood  erect,  with  the  vigor  that  should  have 
been  his  by  right  of  his  years,  the  man  would  have 
measured  just  short  of  six  feet;  but  his  shoulders — 
naturally  well  set — sagged  with  the  weariness  of  ex 
cessive  physical  indulgence;  while  the  sunken  chest, 
the  emaciated  limbs,  and  the  dejected  posture  of  his 
.misused  body  made  him  in  appearance,  at  least,  a 
wretched  weakling.  His  clothing — of  good  material 
and  well  tailored — was  disgustingly  soiled  and 
neglected ; — the  shoes  thickly  coated  with  dried  mud, 
and  the  once-white  shirt,  slovenly  unfastened  at  the 
throat,  without  collar  or  tie.  The  face  which  looked 
back  from  the  mirror  to  the  man  was,  without  ques 
tion,  the  countenance  of  a  gentleman;  but  the  broad 
forehead  under  the  unkempt  red-brown  hair  was  fur 
rowed  with  anxiety ;  the  unshaven  cheeks  were  lined 
and  sunken;  the  finely  shaped,  sensitive  mouth 
drooped  with  nervous  weakness;  and  the  blue,  well- 


26 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

placed  eyes  were  bloodshot  and  glittering  with  the 
light  of  near-insanity. 

The  poor  creature  looked  at  the  hideous  image  of 
his  ruined  self  as  if  fascinated  with  the  horror  of 
that  which  had  been  somehow  wrought.  Slowly,  as 
one  in  a  trance,  he  went  closer,  and,  without  moving 
his  gaze  from  the  mirror,  placed  the  bottle  and  tum 
bler  upon  the  bureau.  As  if  compelled  by  those  burn 
ing  eyes  that  stared  so  fixedly  at  him,  he  leaned  for 
ward  still  closer  to  the  glass.  Then,  as  he  looked,  the 
distorted  features  twitched  and  worked  grotesquely 
with  uncontrollable  emotions,  while  the  quivering 
lips  formed  words  that  were  not  even  whispered. 
With  trembling  fingers  he  felt  the  unshaven  cheeks 
and  touched  the  unkempt  hair  questioningly.  Sud 
denly,  as  if  to  shut  out  the  horror  of  that  which  he 
saw  in  the  mirror,  the  man  hid  his  face  in  his  hands, 
and  with  a  sobbing,  inarticulate  cry  sank  to  the  fioor. 

Silently,  with  pitiless  force,  the  river  swept  on 
ward  through  the  night,  following  its  ordained  way 
to  the  mighty  sea. 

As  if  summoned  again  by  some  dark  spirit  that 
brooded  over  the  sombre,  rushing  flood,  the  man  rose 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

heavily  to  his  feet.  His  face  turned  once  more  to 
ward  the  window.  A  moment  he  stood  there,  listen 
ing,  listening;  then  wheeling  back  to  the  whisky 
bottle  and  the  glass  on  the  bureau,  he  quickly  poured, 
and  drank  again. 

Nodding  his  head  in  the  manner  of  one  reaching 
a  conclusion,  he  looked  slowly  about  the  room,  while 
a  frightful  grin  of  hopeless,  despairing  triumph 
twisted  his  features,  and  his  lips  moved  as  if  he 
breathed  reckless  defiance  to  an  invisible  ghostly 
company. 

Moving,  now,  with  a  decision  and  purpose  that 
suggested  a  native  strength  of  character,  the  man 
quickly  packed  a  suit-case  with  various  articles  of 
clothing  from  the  bureau  drawers  and  the  closet.  He 
was  in  the  act  of  closing  the  suit-case  when  he  stopped 
suddenly,  and,  with  a  shrug  of  his  shoulders,  turned 
away.  Then,  as  if  struck  by  another  thought,  he 
stooped  again  over  his  baggage,  and  drew  forth  a 
fresh,  untouched  bottle  of  whisky. 

"I  guess  you  are  the  only  baggage  I'll  need  where 
I  am  going,"  he  said,  whimsically;  and,  leaving  the 
open  suit-case  where  it  lay,  he  crossed  the  room,  and 
extinguished  the  light.  Cautiously,  he  unlocked  and 

28 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

opened  the  door.  For  a  moment,  he  stood  listening. 
Then,  with  the  bottle  hidden  under  his  coat,  he  stole 
softly  from  the  room. 

A  few  minutes  later,  the  man  stood  out  there  in 
the  night,  on  the  bank  of  the  river.  Behind  him  the 
outlines  of  the  scattered  houses  that  made  the  little 
town  were  lost  against  the  dusk  of  the  hillside.  From 
the  ghostly  tree-shadows  that  marked  the  opposite 
bank,  the  solemn  hills  rose  out  of  the  deeper  darkness 
of  the  lowlands  that  edged  the  stream  in  sombre  mys 
tery.  There  was  no  break  in  the  heavy  clouds  to 
permit  the  gleam  of  a  friendly  star.  There  was  no 
sound  save  the  soft  swish  of  the  water  against  the 
bank  where  he  stood,  the  chirping  of  a  bird  in  the 
near-by  willows,  and  the  occasional  splash  of  a  leaping 
fish  or  water  animal.  But  to  the  man  there  was  a 
feeling  of  sound.  To  the  lonely  human  wreck  stand 
ing  there  in  the  darkness,  the  river  called — called 
with  fearful,  insistent  power. 

From  under  the  black  wall  of  the  night  the  dread 
ful  flood  swept  out  of  the  Somewhere  of  its  beginning. 
Past  the  man  the  river  poured  its  mighty  strength 
with  resistless,  smoothly  flowing,  terrible  force.  Into 
the  darkness  it  swept  on  its  awful  way  to  the  No- 

29 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

where  of  its  ending.  For  uncounted  ages,  the  river 
had  poured  itself  thus  between  those  walls  of  hills. 
For  untold  ages  to  come,  until  the  end  of  time  itself, 
the  stream  would  continue  to  pour  its  strength  past 
that  spot  where  the  man  stood. 

Out  of  the  night,  the  voice  of  the  river  had  called 
to  the  man,  as  he  stood  at  the  window  of  his  darkened 
room.  And  the  man  had  come,  now,  to  answer  the 
call.  Cautiously,  he  went  down  the  bank  toward 
the  edge  of  the  dark,  swirling  water.  His  purpose 
was  unmistakable.  Nor  was  there  any  hint  of  falter 
ing,  now,  in  his  manner.  He  had  reached  his  de 
cision.  He  knew  what  he  had  come  to  do. 

The  man's  feet  were  feeling  the  mud  at  the  margin 
of  the  stream  when  his  legs  touched  something,  and 
a  low,  rattling  sound  startled  him.  Then  he  remem 
bered.  A  skiff  was  moored  there,  and  he  had  brushed 
against  the  chain  that  led  from  the  bow  of  the  boat 
to  the  stump  of  a  willow  higher  up  on  the  bank.  The 
man  had  seen  the  skiff,--a  rude,  flat-bottomed  little 
craft,  known  to  the  Ozark  natives  as  a  John-boat, — 
just  before  sunset  that  evening.  But  there  had  been 
no  boat  in  his  thoughts  when  he  had  come  to  answer 
the  call  of  the  river,  and  in  the  preoccupation  of  his 

30 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN"  KESTT 

mind,  as  he  stood  there  in  the  night  beside  the  stream, 
he  had  not  noticed  it,  as  it  lay  so  nearly  invisible  in 
the  darkness.  Mechanically,  he  stooped  to  feel  the 
chain  with  his  free  hand.  A  moment  later,  he  had 
placed  his  bottle  of  whisky  carefully  in  the  boat,  and 
was  loosing  the  chain  painter  from  the  willow  stump. 

"Why  not  ?"  he  said  to  himself.  "It  will  be  easier 
in  midstream, — and  more  certain." 

Carefully,  so  that  no  sound  should  break  the  still 
ness,  he  stowed  the  chain  in  the  bow,  and  then  worked 
the  skiff  around  until  it  pointed  out  into  the  stream. 
Then,  with  his  hands  grasping  the  sides  of  the  little 
craft,  and  the  weight  of  his  body  on  one  knee  in  the 
stern,  he  pushed  vigorously  with  his  free  foot  against 
the  bank  and  so  was  carried  well  out  from  the  shore, 
As  the  boat  lost  its  momentum,  the  strong  current 
caught  it  and  whirled  it  away  down  the  river. 

Groping  in  the  darkness,  the  man  found  his  bottle 
of  whisky,  and  working  the  cork  out  with  his  pocket- 
knife,  drank  long  and  deep. 

Already,  save  for  a  single  light,  the  town  was  lost 
in  the  night.  As  the  man  watched  that  red  spot  on 
the  black  wall,  the  stream  swung  his  drifting  boat 
around  a  bend,  and  the  light  vanished.  The  dreadful 

31 


THE  EE-CEEATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

mystery  of  the  river  drew  close.  The  world  of  men 
was  far,  very  far  away.  Centuries  ago,  the  man  had 
faced  himself  in  the  mirror,  and  had  obeyed  the  voice 
that  summoned  him  into  the  darkness.  In  fancy, 
now,  he  saw  his  empty  boat  swept  on  and  on. 
Through  what  varied  scenes  -would  it  drift  ?  To  what 
port  would  the  mysterious  will  of  the  river  carry  it  ? 
To  what  end  would  it  at  last  come  in  its  helplessness  ? 

And  the  man  himself, — the  human  soul-craft, — 
what  of  him?  As  he  had  pushed  his  material  boat 
out  into  the  stream  to  drift,  unguided  and  helpless, 
so,  presently,  he  would  push  himself  out  from  the 
shore  of  all  that  men  call  life.  Through  what  scenes 
would  he  drift  ?  To  what  port  would  the  will  of  an 
awful  invisible  stream  carry  him?  To  what  end 
would  he  finally  come,  in  his  helplessness  ? 

Again  the  man  drank — and  again. 

And  then,  with  face  upturned  to  the  leaden  clouds, 
he  laughed  aloud — laughed  until  the  ghostly  shores 
gave  back  his  laughter,  and  the  voices  of  the  night 
were  hushed  and  still. 

The  laughter  ended  with  a  wild,  reckless,  defiant 
yell. 

Springing  to  his  feet  in  the  drifting  boat,  the  man 

32 


THE  KE-CREATIO:NT  OF  BKIAN 

shook  his  clenched  fist  at  the  darkness,   and  with 
insane  fury  cursed  the  life  he  had  left  behind. 

The  current  whirled  the  boat  around,  and  the  man 
faced  down  the  stream.  He  laughed  again ;  and,  lift 
ing  his  bottle  high,  uttered  a  reckless,  profane  toast 
to  the  unknown  toward  which  he  was  being  carried  by 
the  river  in  the  night. 


CHAPTER  III. 

A  MISSING  LETTER. 

UNTIE  SUE'S  little  log  house  by  the  river 
was  placed  some  five  hundred  yards  back 
from  the  stream,  on  a  bench  of  land  at  the 
foot  of  Schoolhouse  Hill.  From  this  bench,  the 
ground  slopes  gently  to  the  river-bank,  which,  at  this 
point,  is  sheer  and  high  enough  to  be  well  above  the 
water  at  flood  periods.  The  road,  winding  down  the 
hill,  turns  to  the  right  at  the  foot  of  the  steep  grade, 
and  leads  away  up  the  river;  and  between  the  road 
and  the  river,  on  the  up-stream  side  of  the  house,  was 
the  garden. 

At  the  lower  corner  of  the  garden,  farthest  from  the 
house,  the  strong  current  had  cut  a  deep  inward  curve 
in  the  high  shore-line,  forming  thus  an  eddy,  which 
was  margined  on  one  side,  at  a  normal  stage  of  water, 
by  a  narrow  shelf  of  land  between  the  water's  edge 
and  the  foot  of  the  main  bank.  A  flight  of  rude  steps 
led  down  from  the  garden  above  to  this  natural  land 
ing,  which,  for  three  miles  up  and  down  the  river, 

34 


THE  EE-CEEATIOX  OF  BEIA<ST  KENT 

was  the  only  point,   on  Auntie  Sue's   side  of   the 
stream,  where  one  could  go  ashore  from  a  skiff. 

From  the  porch  of  the  house,  one,  facing  up  the 
river,  looked  over  the  gently  sloping  garden,  over  the 
eddy  lying  under  the  high  bank,  and  away  over  a 
beautiful  reach  of  water  known  as  The  Bend, — a 
wide,  sweeping  curve  which,  a  mile  distant,  is  lost 
behind  a  wooded  bluff  where,  at  times,  during  the 
vacation  or  hunting  season,  one  might  see  the  smoke 
from  the  stone  chimney  of  a  clubhouse  which  was 
built  and  used  by  people  who  lived  in  the  big,  noisy 
city  many  miles  from  the  peaceful  Ozark  scene. 
From  the  shore  of  The  Bend,  opposite  and  above 
Auntie  Sue's  place,  beyond  the  willows  that  fringe 
the  water's  edge,  the  low  bottom-lands  extend  back 
three-quarters  of  a  mile  to  the  foot  of  a  heavily  tim 
bered  ridge,  beyond  which  rise  the  higher  hills.  But 
directly  across  from  Auntie  Sue's  house,  this  ridge 
curves  sharply  toward  the  stream ;  while  less  than  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  below,  a  mighty  mountain-arm  is 
thrust  out  from  a  shoulder  of  Schoolhouse  Hill,  as 
if  to  bar  the  river's  way.  The  high  bluff  thus  formed 
is  known  to  the  natives  throughout  all  that  region  as 
Elbow  Eoek. 

35 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

The  quiet  waters  of  The  Bend  move  so  gently  on 
their  broad  course  that  from  the  porch,  looking  up 
the  stream,  the  eye  could  scarcely  mark  the  current. 
But  in  front  of  the  little  log  house,  where  the  restrain 
ing  banks  of  the  river  draw  closer  together,  the  lazy 
current  awakens  to  quickening  movement.  Looking 
down  the  stream,  one  could  see  the  waters  leaving 
the  broad  and  quiet  reaches  of  The  Bend  above  and 
rushing  away  with  fast  increasing  speed  between  the 
narrowing  banks  until,  in  all  their  vicious  might, 
they  dashed  full  against  the  Elbow  Rock  cliff,  where, 
boiling  and  tossing  in  mad  fury,  they  roared  away 
at  a  right  angle  and  so  around  the  point  and  on  to 
another  quiet  stretch  below.  And  many  were  the 
tales  of  stirring  adventure  and  tragic  accident  at  this 
dangerous  point  of  the  river's  journey  to  the  far-away 
sea.  Skilled  rivermen,  by  holding  their  John-boats 
and  canoes  close  to  the  far  shore,  might  run  the  rapids 
with  safety.  But  no  boat,  once  caught  in  the  vicious 
grip  of  the  main  current  between  the  comparatively 
still  waters  of  The  Bend  and  that  wild,  roaring 
tumult  at  Elbow  Rock,  had  ever  survived. 

It  was  nearing  the  close  of  a  late  summer  day,  and 
Auntie  Sue,  as  was  her  custom,  stood  on  the  porch 


THE  RE-CREATION  OE  BRIAN  KENT 

watching  the  sunset.  In  the  vast  field  of  sky  that 
arched  above  the  softly  rounded  hills  there  was  not 
a  cloud.  No  wind  stirred  the  leaves  of  the  far-reach 
ing  forests,  or  marred  the  bright  waters  of  the  quiet 
Bend  that  mirrored  back  the  green,  tree-fringed  banks 
and  blue-shadowed  mountains.  Faintly,  through  the 
hush,  from  beyond  the  bottom-lands  on  the  other  side 
of  the  stream,  came  the  long-drawn  "Wh-o-e-e! 
Wh-o-e-e !"  of  farmer  Jackson  calling  his  hogs.  From 
the  hillside,  back  of  the  house,  sounded  the  deep, 
mellow  tones  of  a  cowbell,  telling  Auntie  Sue  that 
neighbor  Tom's  cattle  were  going  home  from  their 
woodland  pastures.  A  company  of  crows  crossed  the 
river  on  leisure  wing,  toward  some  evening  rendez 
vous.  A  waterfowl  flapped  slowly  up  the  stream. 
And  here  and  there  the  swallows  wheeled  in  graceful 
circles  above  the  gleaming  Bend,  or  dipped,  flashlike, 
to  break  the  silvery  surface.  As  the  blue  of  the  moun 
tains  deepened  to  purple,  and  the  rosy  light  from 
below  the  western  hills  flushed  the  sky,  the  silver 
sheen  of  the  quiet  water  changed  with  the  changing 
tints  above,  and  the  shadows  of  the  trees  along  the 
bank  deepened  until  the  shore-line  was  lost  in  the 
dusk  of  the  coming  night. 

37 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

And  even  as  the  river  gave  back  the  light  of  the 
sky  and  the  color  of  the  mountains,  so  the  gentle  face 
of  the  gray-haired  woman,  who  watched  with  such 
loving  reverence,  reflected  the  beauty  of  the  scene. 
The  peace  and  quiet  of  the  evening  of  her  life  was  as 
the  still  loveliness  of  that  twilight  hour. 

And,  yet,  there  was  a  suggestion  of  pathos  in  the 
loneliness  of  the  slender  figure  standing  there.  Now 
and  again,  she  clasped  her  delicate  hands  to  her 
breast  as  if  moved  by  emotions  of  a  too-poignant 
sweetness,  while  in  her  eyes  shone  the  soft  light  of 
fondest  memories  and  dearest  dreams.  Several  times 
she  turned  her  head  to  look  about,  as  if  wishing  for 
some  one  to  share  with  her  the  beauty  that  moved  her 
so.  At  last,  she  called ;  and  her  voice,  low  and  pure- 
toned,  had  in  it  the  quality  that  was  in  the  light  of 
her  eyes. 

"Judy !  Judy,  dear !  Do  come  and  see  this  wonder 
ful,  wonderful  sky!" 

From  within  the  house,  a  shrill,  querulous,  drawl 
ing  voice,  so  characteristic  of  the  Southern  "poor- 
white"  mountaineer,  answered:  "Wha-a-t?" 

A  quick  little  smile  deepened  the  crows'-feet  at  the 
corners  of  Auntie  Sue's  eyes,  as  she  called  again  with 

38 


THE  KE-CKEATION  OF  BKIA^  KENT 

gentle  patience :  "Do  come  and  see  the  sunset,  Judy, 
dear!  It  is  so  beautiful!"  And,  this  time,  in  an 
swer,  Judy  appeared  in  the  doorway. 

From  appearances,  the  poor  creature's  age  might 
have  been  anywhere  from  fifteen  to  thirty- five;  for 
the  twisted  and  misshapen  body,  angular  and  hard; 
the  scrawny,  wry  neck ;  the  old-young  f ace?  thin  and 
sallow,  with  furtive,  beady-black  eyes,  gave  no  hint 
of  her  years.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  happened  to 
know  that  Judith  Taylor,  daughter  of  the  notorious 
Ozark  moonshiner,  Jap  Taylor,  was  just  past  twenty 
the  year  she  went  to  live  with  Auntie  Sue. 

Looking  obliquely  at  the  old  gentlewoman,  with 
a  curious  expression  of  mingled  defiance,  suspicion, 
and  affection  on  her  almost  vicious  face,  Judy 
drawled,  "Was  you-all  a-yellin'  for  me  ?" 

"Yes,  Judy ;  I  want  you  to  help  me  watch  the  sun 
set,"  Auntie  Sue  answered,  with  bright  animation; 
and,  turning,  she  pointed  toward  the  glowing  west, — 
"Look!" 

Judy's  sly,  evasive  eyes  did  not  cease  to  regard  the 
illumined  face  of  her  old  companion  as  she  returned, 
in  her  dry,  high-pitched  monotone :  "I  don't  reckon  as 
how  you-all  are  a-needin'  much  help,  seein'  as  how 

39 


THE  RE-CKEATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

you  are  allus  a-watchinj  hit.  A  body'd  think  you-all 
was  mighty  nigh  old  'nough,  by  now,  ter  look  at  hit 
alone." 

Auntie  Sue  laughed,  a  low,  musical,  chuckling 
laugh,  and,  with  a  hint  of  loving  impatience  in  her 
gentle  voice,  replied  to  Judy's  observation:  "But, 
don't  you  understand,  child?  It  adds  so  to  one's 
happiness  to  share  lovely  scenes  like  this.  It  makes 
it  all  so  much — so  much — well, — bigger,  to  have  some 
one  enjoy  it  with  you.  Come,  dear!"  And  she  held 
out  her  hand  with  a  gesture  of  entreaty,  and  a  look  of 
yearning  upon  her  dear  old  face  that  no  human  being 
could  have  withstood. 

Judy,  still  slyly  watchful,  went  cautiously  nearer ; 
and  Auntie  Sue,  putting  an  arm  lovingly  about  the 
crooked  shoulders  of  the  mountain  girl,  pointed  again 
toward  the  west  as  she  said,  in  a  low  voice  that  vi 
brated  with  emotion,  "Look,  Judy!  Look!" 

The  black  eyes  shifted,  and  the  old-young,  expres 
sionless  face  turned  toward  the  landscape,  which  lay 
before  them  in  all  its  wondrous  beauty  of  glowing 
sky  and  tinted  mountain  and  gleaming  river.  And 
there  might  have  been  a  faint  touch  of  softness,  now, 
in  the  querulous  monotone  as  Judy  said:  "I  can't 

40 


"Look,  Judy!    Look! 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN"  KENT 

see  as  how  hit  could  be  ary  bigger.  Hain't  ary  rea 
son,  as  I  kin  see,  why  hit  should  be  ary  bigger  if  hit 
could.  Lord  knows  there's  'nough  of  hit  as  't  is; 
rough  'nough,  too,  as  you-all  'd  sure  know  if  you-all 
had  ter  trapse  over  them  there  hills  all  yer  life  like 
I've  had  ter." 

"But,  isn't  it  wonderful  to-night,  Judy  ?  It  seems 
to  me  I  ha .  e  never  seen  it  so  perfect." 

"Hit's  just  like  hit's  allus  been,  so  far  as  I  kin 
see,  'ceptin'  that  the  river's  higher  in  the  spring  an' 
more  muddier,"  returned  the  mountain  girl.  "I  was 
borned  over  there  on  yon  side  that  there  flat-topped 
mountain,  nigh  the  mouth  of  Red  Creek.  I  growed 
up  on  the  river,  mostly ; — learned  ter  swim  an'  paddle 
er  John-boat  'fore  I  kin  remember.  Red  Creek,  hit 
heads  over  there  behind  that  there  long  ridge,  in 
Injin  Holler.  There's  a  still—" 

She  checked  herself  suddenly,  and  shot  a  fearful 
sidewise  look  at  Auntie  Sue ;  then  turned  and  pointed 
in  the  opposite  direction  with  a  pretense  of  excited 
interest.  "Look  down  there,  ma'rn !  See  how  black 
the  old  river  is  where  she  smashes  inter  Elbow  Rock, 
an'  how  white  them  waves  be  where  the  water  biles 
an'  throws  hitself.  Hit'd  sure  git  you  if  you  was  ter 

41 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

git  ketched  in  there  with  er  John-boat,  wouldn't  hit  ? 
Listen,  ma'm!  You  kin  hear  hit  a-roarin'  like  hit 
was  mad,  can't  you  ?" 

But  the  older  woman  turned  to  face,  again,  the 
quiet  reaches  of  The  Bend. 

"I  think  I  like  The  Bend  best,  though,  Judy.  See 
how  perfectly  those  trees  and  hills  are  mirrored  in 
the  river;  and  how  the  water  holds  the  color  of  the 
sky.  Don't  you  think  God  is  good  to  make  the  world 
so  beautiful  for  us,  child  ?" 

"  'Beautiful' !"  cried  poor,  deformed  Judy,  in  a 
voice  that  shrilled  in  vicious  protest.  "If  there  is 
a  God,  like  you-all  are  allus  a-talkin'  'bout,  an'  if  He 
sure  'nough  made  them  things,  like  you-all  sees  'em, 
He  sure  hain't  toted  fair  with  me." 

"Hush,  Judy!"  pleaded  Auntie  Sue.  "Please 
don't,  child!" 

But  the  mountain  girl  rebelliously  continued: 
"Look  at  me!  Just  look  at  me!  If  that  there  God 
of  your'n  is  so  all-fired  good,  what  did  He  go  an'  let 
my  pap  git  drunk  for,  an'  beat  me  like  he  done  when 
I  was  a  baby,  an'  make  me  grow  up  all  crooked  like 
what  I  be?  'Good'  ?  Hell!  A  dad  burned  ornery 
kind  of  a  God  I  call  Him !" 


THE  RE-CBEATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

For  some  time,  Auntie  Sue  did  not  speak,  but 
stood  with  her  face  upturned  to  the  sky.  Then  the 
low,  gentle  voice  again  broke  the  silence :  "See,  Judy, 
dear ;  the  light  is  almost  gone  now,  and  there  is  not  a 
cloud  anywhere.  Yesterday  evening,  you  remember, 
^ve  could  not  see  the  sunset  at  all,  the  clouds  were  so 
Iie<avy  and  solid.  The  moon  will  be  lovely  to-night. 
I  think  I  shall  wait  for  it," 

"You-all  best  set  down  then,"  said  Judy,  speaking 
again  in  her  querulous,  drawling  monotone.  "I'll 
fetch  a  chair."  She  brought  a  comfortable  rustic 
rocking-chair  from  the  farther  end  of  the  porch ;  then 
disappeared  into  the  house,  to  return  a  moment  later 
with  a  heavy  shawl.  "Hit'll  be  a-turnin'  cold  directly, 
now  the  sun's  plumb  down,"  she  said,  "an'  you-all 
mustn't  get  to  chillin',  nohow." 

Auntie  Sue  thanked  her  with  gentle  courtesy,  and, 
reaching  up,  caught  the  girl's  hand  as  Judy  was 
awkwardly  arranging  the  wrap  about  the  thin  old 
shoulders.  "Won't  you  bring  a  chair  for  yourself, 
and  sit  with  me  awhile,  dear  ?"  As  she  spoke,  Auntie 
Sue  patted  the  hard,  bony  hand  caressingly. 

But  Judy  pulled  her  hand  away  roughly,  saying: 
"You-all  ain't  got  no  call  ter  do  sich  as  that  ter  me. 

43 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

I'll  set  awhile  with  you  but  I  ain't  a-needin'  no 
chair."  And  with  that,  she  seated  herself  on  the 
floor,  her  back  against  the  wall  of  the  house. 

The  last  of  the  evening  was  gone  from  the  sky, 
now.  The  soft  darkness  of  a  clear,  star-light  night 
lay  over  the  land.  A  gentle  breeze  stole  over  the 
mountains,  rustled  softly  through  the  forest,  and, 
drifting  across  the  river,  touched  Auntie  Sue's  sil 
very  hair. 

Judy  was  first  to  break  the  silence :  "I  took  notice 
neighbor  Tom  brung  you-all  a  right  smart  bunch  of 
letter  mail  this  evenin',"  she  said,  curiously. 

There  was  a  troubled  note  in  Auntie  Sue's  gentle 
voice  as  she  returned,  "The  letter  from  the  bank  did 
not  come,  Judy." 

"Hit  didn't?" 

"No ;  and,  Judy,  it  is  nearly  four  weeks,  now,  since 
I  sent  them  that  money.  I  can't  understand  it." 

"I  was  plumb  scared  at  the  time,  you  oughten  ter 
sent  hit  just  in  er  letter  that  a-way.  Hit  sure  looked 
like  a  heap  of  money  ter  be  a-trustin'  them  there 
ornery  post-office  fellers  with,  even  if  hit  was  funny, 
new-fangled  money  like  that  there  was.  Why,  ma'ni, 


THE  EE-CEEATION  OF  BRIAN  KEXT 

you  take  old  Tod  Stimson,  down  at  the  Ferry,  now, 
an'  that  old  deviPd  steal  anythin'  what  warn't  too 
much  trouble  for  him  ter  lift." 

"Argentine  notes  the  money  was,  Judy.  I  felt  sure 
that  it  would  be  all  right  because,  you  know,  Brother 
John  sent  it  just  in  a  letter  all  the  way  from  Buenos 
Aires.  And,  you  remember,  I  folded  it  up  in  extra 
heavy  paper,  and  put  it  in  two  envelopes,  one  over 
the  other,  and  mailed  it  at  Thompsonville  with  my 
own  hands." 

"Hit*  sure  looks  like  hit  ought  ter  be  safe  er  nough, 
so  long  as  hit  warn't  mailed  at  the  Ferry  where  old 
Stimson  could  git  his  hands  on  hit,"  agreed  Judy. 

Then,  after  a  silence  of  several  minutes,  she  added, 
in  a  more  reassuring  voice:  "I  reckon  as  how  hit'll 
be  all  right,  ma'm.  I  wouldn't  worry  myself,  if  I 
was  you.  That  there  bank-place,  like  as  not,  gits  er 
right  smart  lot  of  letters,  an'  hit  stands  ter  reason  the 
feller  just  naturally  can't  write  back  ter  ev'rybody  at 
once." 

"Of  course,"  agreed  Auntie  Sue.  "It  is  just  some 
delay  in  their  acknowledgment,  that  is  all.  Per 
haps  they  are  waiting  to  find  out  if  the  notes  are 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

genuine;  or  it  may  be  that  their  letter  to  me  went 
astray,  and  will  have  to  be  returned  to  them,  and  then 
remailed  all  over  again.  I  feel  sure  I  shall  hear  from 
them  in  a  few  days." 

So  they  talked  until  the  moon  appeared  from  be 
hind  the  dark  mountains  that,  against  her  light,  were 
silhouetted  on  the  sky.  And,  as  the  old  gentlewoman 
watched  the  queen  of  the  night  rising  higher  and 
higher  on  her  royal  course,  and  saw  the  dusky  land 
scape  transformed  to  a  fairy-scene  of  ethereal  loveli 
ness,  Auntie  Sue  forgot  the  letter  that  had  not  come. 

With  the  enthusiasm  that  never  failed  her,  the  sil 
very-haired  teacher  tried  to  give  the  backwoods  girl 
a  little  of  her  wealth  of  vision.  But  though  they 
looked  at  the  same  landscape,  the  eyes  of  twenty  could 
not  see  that  which  was  so  clear  to  the  eyes  of  seventy* 
Poor  Judy !  The  river,  sweeping  on  its  winding  way 
through  the  hills,  from  the  springs  of  its  far-away 
beginnings  to  the  ocean  of  its  final  endeavor, — in  all 
its  varied  moods  and  changes, — in  all  its  beauty  and 
its  irresistible  power, — the  river  could  never  mean  to 
Judy  what  it  meant  to  Auntie  Sue. 

"Hit  sure  is  er  fine  night  for  to  go  'possum  hunt- 


THE  HE-CREATION  OF  BRIAX  KENT 

in',"  said  the  girl,  at  last,  getting  to  her  feet  and 
standing  in  her  twisted  attitude,  with  her  wry  neck 
holding  her  head  to  one  side.  "Them  there  Jackson 
boys'll  sure  be  out." 

Auntie  Sue  laughed  her  low  chuckling  laugh. 

From  the  edge  of  the  timber  that  borders  the  fields 
of  the  bottom-lands  across  the  river,  came  the  baying 
of  hounds.  "There  they  be  now,"  said  Judy.  "Hear 
'em  ?  The  Billingses,  'cross  from  the  clubhouse,  '11  be 
out,  too,  I  reckon.  When  hit's  moonlight,  they're 
allus  a-huntin'  'possum  an'  'coon.  When  hit's  dark, 
they're  out  on  the  river  a-giggin'  for  fish.  Well,  I 
reckon  I'll  be  a-goin'  in,  now,  ma'm,"  she  concluded, 
with  a  yawn.  "Ain't  no  use  in  a  body  stayin'  up 
when  there  ain't  nothin'  ter  do  but  ter  sleep,  as  I 
kin  see." 

With  an  awkward  return  to  Auntie  Sue's  "Good 
night  and  sweet  dreams,  dear,"  the  mountain  girl 
went  into  the  house. 

For  an  hour  longer,  the  old  gentlewoman  sat  on 
the  porch  of  her  little  log  house  by  the  river,  looking 
out  over  the  moonlit  scene.  NOT  did  she  now,  as  when 
she  had  watched  the  sunset,  crave  human  companion- 


THE  KE-CKEATIOST  OF  BKIAN  KENT 

ship.     In  spirit,  she  was  far  from  all  earthly  needs 
or  cares, — where  no  troubled  thoughts  could  disturb 
her  serene  peace  and  her  dearest  dreams  were  real. 
The  missing  letter  was  forgotten. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  WILL  OF  THE  RIVER. 

I  AD  Auntie  Sue  remained  a  few  minutes 
longer  on  the  porch,  that  evening,  she  might 
have  seen  an  object  drifting  down  the  river, 
in  the  gentle  current  of  The  Bend. 

Swinging  easily  around  the  curve  above  the  club 
house,  it  would  not  have  been  visible  at  first,  because 
of  the  deep  shadows  of  the  reflected  trees  and  moun 
tains.  But,  presently,  as  it  drifted  on  into  the 
broader  waters  of  The  Bend,  it  emerged  from  the 
shadows  into  the  open  moonlit  space,  and  then,  to 
any  one  watching  from  the  porch,  the  dark  object, 
drawing  nearer  and  nearer  in  the  bright  moonlight, 
would  have  soon  shaped  itself  into  a  boat — an  empty 
boat,  the  watcher  would  have  said,  that  had  broken 
from  its  moorings  somewhere  up  the  river ; — and  the 
watcher  would  have  heard,  through  the  still,  night 
air,  the  dull,  heavy  roar  of  the  mad  waters  at  Elbow 
Eock. 

Drifting  thus,  helpless  in  the  grip  of  the  main 

49 


THE  KE-CBEATION  OF  BKIAN  KENT 

current,  the  little  craft  apparently  was  doomed  to 
certain  destruction.  Gently,  it  would  float  on  the 
easy  surface  of  the  quiet,  moonlit  Bend.  In  front  of 
the  house,  it  would  move  faster  and  faster.  Where 
the  river  narrows,  it  would  be  caught  as  if  by  mighty 
hands  hidden  beneath  the  rushing  flood,  and  dragged 
onward  still  faster  and  faster.  About  it,  the  racing 
waters  would  leap  and  boil  in  their  furious,  headlong 
career,  shaking  and  tossing  the  helpless  victim  of  their 
might  with  a  vicious  strength  from  which  there  would 
be  no  escape,  until,  in  the  climax  of  the  river's  mad 
ness,  the  object  of  its  angry  sport  would  be  dashed 
against  the  cliff,  and  torn,  and  crushed,  and  hammered 
by  the  terrific  weight  of  the  rushing  flood  against  that 
rocky  anvil,  into  a  battered  and  shapeless  wreck. 

The  drifting  boat  drew  nearer  and  nearer.  It 
reached  the  point  where  the  curve  of  the  opposite  bank 
draws  in  to  form  the  narrow  raceway  of  the  rapids. 
It  began  to  feel  the  stronger  pull  of  those  hidden 
hands  that  had  carried  it  so  easily  down  The  Bend. 
And  then — and  then — the  unguided,  helpless  craft  re- 
sponded  to  the  gentle  pressure  of  some  swirl  or  cross 
current  in  the  main  flow  of  the  stream,  and  swung 
a  little  to  one  side.  A  few  feet  farther,  and  the  new 

50 


THE  HE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

impulse  became  stronger..  Yielding  easily  to  the  cur 
rent  that  drew  it  so  gently  across  the  invisible  divid 
ing-line  between  safety  and  destruction,  the  boat 
swung  in  toward  the  shore.  A  minute  more,  and 
it  had  drifted  into  that  encircling  curve  of  the  bank 
where  the  current  of  the  eddy  carried  it  around  and 
around. 

The  boat  seemed  undecided.  Would  it  hold  to  the 
harbor  of  safety  into  which  it  had  been  drawn  by  the 
friendly  current?  Would  it  swing  out,  again,  into 
the  main  stream,  and  so  to  its  own  destruction  ? 

Three  times  the  bow,  pointing  out  from  the  eddy, 
crossed  the  danger-line,  and,  for  a  moment,  hung  on 
the  very  edge.  Three  times,  the  invisible  hands 
which  held  it  drew  it  gently  back  to  safety.  And  so, 
finally,  the  little  craft,  so  helpless,  so  alone,  amid  the 
many  currents  of  the  great  river,  came  to  rest  against 
the  narrow  shelf  of  land  at  the  foot  of  the  bank  below 
Auntie  Sue's  garden. 

The  light  in  the  window  of  Auntie  Sue's  room  went 
out.  The  soft  moonlight  flooded  mountain  and  valley 
and  stream.  The  mad  waters  at  Elbow  Rock  roared 
in  their  wild  fury.  Always,  always, — irresistibly,  in 
evitably,  unceasingly, — the  river  poured  its  strength 

toward  the  sea.  ,,_, 

51 


CHAPTER  V. 

AUNTIE  SUE  RECOGNIZES  A  GENTLEMAN. 

EFOKE  the  sun  was  high  enough  to  look  over 
Schoolhouse  Hill,  the  next  morning,  Judy 
went  into  the  garden  to  dig  some  potatoes. 

Tom  Warden's  boys  would  come,  some  day  before 
long,  and  dig  them  all,  and  put  them  away  in  the 
cellar  for  the  winter.  But  there  was  no  need  to  hurry 
the  gathering  of  the  full  crop,  so  the  boys  would  come 
when  it  was  most  convenient ;  and,  in  the  meantime, 
Judy  would  continue  to  dig  from  day  to  day  all  that 
were  needed  for  the  kitchen  in  the  little  log  house  by 
the  river.  In  spite  of  her  poor  crooked  body,  the 
mountain  girl  was  strong  and  well  used  to  hard  work, 
so  the  light  task  was,  for  her,  no  hardship  at  all. 

As  one  will  when  first  coming  out  of  doors  in  the 
morning,  Judy  paused  a  moment  to  look  about.  The 
sky,  so  clear  and  bright  the  evening  before,  was  now 
a  luminous  gray.  The  mountains  were  lost  in  a 
ghostly  world  of  fog,  through  which  the  river  moved 
in  stealthy  silence, — a  dull  thing  of  mystery,  with 

52 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

only  here  and  there  a  touch  of  silvery  light  upon  its 
clouded  surface.  The  cottonwoods  and  willows,  on 
the  opposite  shore,  were  mere  dreams  of  trees, — gray, 
formless,  and  weird.  The  air  was  filled  with  the  dank 
earth-smell.  The  heavy  thundering  roar  of  the  never- 
ending  war  of  the  waters  at  Elbow  Rock  came  louder 
and  more  menacing,  but  strangely  unreal,  as  if  the 
mist  itself  were  filled  with  threatening  sound. 

But  to  Judy,  the  morning  was  only  the  beginning 
of  another  day ; — she  looked,  but  did  not  see.  To  her, 
the  many  ever-changing  moods  of  Nature  were  with 
out  meaning.  With  her  basket  in  hand,  she  went 
down  to  the  lower  end  of  the  garden,  where  she  had 
dug  potatoes  the  time  before,  and  where  she  had  left 
the  fork  sticking  upright  in  the  ground. 

A  few  minutes  served  to  fill  the  basket ;  but,  before 
starting  back  to  the  house,  the  mountain  girl  paused 
again  to  look  out  over  the  river.  Perhaps  it  was  some 
vague  memory  of  Auntie  Sue's  talk,  the  night  before, 
that  prompted  her ;  perhaps  it  was  some  instinct,  in 
definite  and  obscure; — whatever  it  was  that  influ 
enced  her,  Judy  left  her  basket,  and  went  to  the  brink 
of  the  high  bank  above  the  eddy  for  a  closer  view  of 
the  water. 

53 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

The  next  instant,  with  the  quick  movement  of  an 
untamed  creature  of  her  native  mountain  forests,  the 
girl  sprang  back,  and  crouched  close  to  the  ground  to 
hide  from  something  she  had  seen  at  the  foot  of  the 
bank.  Every  movement  of  her  twisted  body  expressed 
amazement  and  fear.  Her  eyes  were  wild  and  ex 
cited.  She  looked  carefully  about,  as  if  for  dangers 
that  might  be  hidden  in  the  fog.  Once,  she  opened  her 
mouth  as  if  to  call.  Half-rising,  she  started  as  if  to 
run  to  the  house.  But,  presently,  curiosity  appar 
ently  overruled  her  fear,  and,  throwing  herself  flat 
on  the  ground  she  wormed  her  way  back  to  the  brink 
of  the  river-bank.  Cautiously,  without  making  a 
sound,  she  peered  through  the  tall  grass  and  weeds 
that  fringed  the  rim  above  the  eddy. 

The  boat,  which  some  kindly  impulse  of  the 
river  had  drawn  so  gently  aside  from  the  stronger 
current  that  would  have  carried  it  down  the  rapids 
to  the  certain  destruction  waiting  at  Elbow  Rock, 
still  rested  with  its  bow  grounded  on  the  shore, 
against  which  the  eddying  water  had  pushed  it.  But 
the  thing  that  had  so  startled  Judy  was  a  man  who 
was  lying,  apparently  unconscious,  on  the  wet  and 
nuddy  bottom-boards  of  the  little  craft. 

54 


THE  KE-CREATIOtf  OF  BRIAK  KEXT 

Breathlessly,  the  girl,  looking  down  from  the  top 
of  the  bank,  watched  for  some  movement;  but  the 
dirty  huddled  heap  of  wretched  humanity  was  so 
still  that  she  could  not  guess  whether  it  was  living  or 
dead.  Fearfully,  she  noted  that  there  were  no  oars 
in  the  boat,  nor  gun,  nor  fishing-tackle  of  any  sort. 
The  man's  hat  was  missing.  His  clothing  was  muddy 
and  disarranged.  His  position  was  such  that  she 
could  not  see  the  face. 

Drawing  back,  Judy  looked  cautiously  about ;  then, 
picking  up  a  heavy  clod  of  dirt  from  the  ploughed 
edge  of  the  garden,  and  crouching  again  at  the  brink 
of  the  bank,  ready  for  instant  flight,  she  threw  the 
clod  into  the  water  near  the  boat.  The  still  form  in. 
the  boat  made  no  movement  following  the  splash. 
Selecting  a  smaller  clod,  the  girl  threw  the  bit  of  dirt 
into  the  stern  of  the  boat  itself,  where  it  broke  in. 
fragments.  And,  at  this,  the  figure  moved  slightly. 

"Hit's  alive,  all  right,"  commented  Judy  to  her 
self,  with  a  grin  of  satisfaction,  at  the  result  of  her 
investigation.  "But  hit's  sure  time  he  was  a-gittin* 
up." 

Carefully  selecting  a  still  smaller  bit  of  dirt,  she 
deliberately  tossed  it  at  the  figure  itself.  Her  aim 

55 


THE  KE-CKEATION  OF  BRIAN  KEJSTT 

was  true,  and  the  clod  struck  the  man  on  the  shoulder, 
with  the  result  that  he  stirred  uneasily,  and,  mutter 
ing  something  which  Judy  could  not  hear,  half -turned 
on  his  back  so  that  the  girl  saw  the  haggard,  un 
shaven  face.  She  saw,  too,  that,  in  one  hand,  the 
man  clutched  an  empty  whisky  bottle. 

At  sight  of  the  bottle,  the  mountain  girl  rose  to 
her  feet  with  an  understanding  laugh.  "Hell !"  she 
said  aloud;  "drunk, — that's  all — dead  drunk.  I'll 
sure  fetch  him  out  of  hit."  And  then,  grinning  with 
malicious  delight,  she  proceeded  to  pelt  the  man  in 
the  boat  with  clods  of  dirt  until  he  scrambled  to  a 
sitting  posture,  and  looked  up  in  bewildered  con 
fusion. 

"If  you  please,"  he  said,  in  a  hoarse  voice,  to  the 
sallow,  old-young  face  that  grinned  down  at  him  from 
the  top  of  the  bank,  "which  one  of  the  DeviPs  imps 
are  you  ?" 

As  she  looked  into  that  upturned  face,  Judy's  grin 
vanished.  "I  sure  'lowed  as  how  you-all  was  dead," 
she  explained. 

"Well,"  returned  the  man  in  the  boat,  wearily,  "I 
can  assure  you  that  it's  not  in  the  least  my  fault  if 
I  disappoint  you.  I  feel  as  bad  about  it  as  you  do. 

56 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

However,  I  don't  think  I  am  so  much  alive  that  it 
makes  any  material  difference."  He  lifted  the  whisky 
bottle,  and  studied  it  thoughtfully. 

"You-all  come  dad  burned  near  not  bein'  ary  bit 
alive/'  returned  the  girl. 

"Yes  ?"  said  the  man,  inquiringly. 

"Yep;  you  sure  did  come  mighty  nigh  hit.  If 
your  old  John-boat  had  a-carried  you-all  on  down  ter 
Elbow  Rock,  'stead  of  bein'  ketched  in  the  eddy  here, 
you-all  would  sure  'nough  been  a-talkin'  to  the  Devil 
by  now." 

The  man,  looking  out  over  the  river  into  the  fog, 
muttered  to  himself,  "I  can't  even  make  a  success  of 
dying,  it  seems." 

Again,  he  regarded  the  empty  bottle  in  his  hand 
with  studied  interest.  Then,  tossing  the  bottle  into 
the  river,  he  looked  up,  once  more,  to  the  girl  on  the 
bank  above. 

"Listen,  sister!"  he  said,  nervously.  "Is  there  any 
place  around  here  where  I  can  buy  a  drink  ?  I  need 
something  rather  badly.  Where  am  I,  anyway?" 

"You-all  are  at  Auntie  Sue's  place,"  said  Judy; 
"an'  there  sure  ain't  no  chance  for  you-all  ter  git  ary 
licker  here.  Where'd  you-all  come  from,  anyhow? 

57 


THE  KE-CKEATIOJST  OF  BKIAN  KENT 

How'd  you-all  git  here  'thout  no  oars  ner  paddle  ner 
nothin'  ?  Where  was  yon-all  aimin'  ter  go  ?" 

"Your  questions,  my  good  girl,  are  immaterial  and 
irrelevant,"  returned  the  man  in  the  boat.  "The  all- 
important  matter  before  us  for  consideration  is, — 
how  can  I  get  a  drink  ?  I  must  have  a  drink,  I  tell 
you !"  He  held  up  his  hands,  and  they  were  shaking 
as  if  with  palsy.  "And  I  must  have  it  damned 
quick!" 

"You-all  sure  do  talk  some  powerful  big  words," 
said  Judy,  with  critical  interest.  "You-all  sure  must 
be  some  eddecated.  Auntie  Sue,  now,  she  talks — " 

The  man  interrupted  her:  "Who  is  'Auntie 
Sue'  ?" 

"I  don't  know,"  Judy  returned ;  "she's  just  Auntie 
Sue — that's  all  I  know.  She  sure  is — " 

Again  the  man  interrupted :  "I  think  it  would  be 
well  for  me  to  interview  this  worthy  aunt  of  yours." 
And  then,  while  he  raised  himself,  unsteadily,  to  his 
feet,  he  continued,  in  a  muttering  undertone :  "You 
don't  seem  to  appreciate  the  situation.  If  I  don't  get 
some  sort  of  liquor  soon,  things  are  bound  to  happen." 

He  attempted  to  step  from  the  boat  to  the  shore; 
but  the  instability  of  the  light,  flat-bottomed  skiff, 

58 


THE  BE-CKEATIOIsr  OF  BKIAN  KEXT 

together  with  his  own  unsteady  weakness,  combined 
to  land  him  half  in  the  water  and  half  on  the  muddy 
bank  where  he  struggled  helplessly,  and,  in  his  weak 
ened  condition,  would  have  slipped  wholly  into  the 
river  had  not  Judy  rushed  down  the  rude  steps  to  his 
assistance. 

With  a  strength  surprising  in  one  of  her  appar 
ent  weakness,  the  mountain  girl  caught  the  stranger 
under  his  shoulders  and  literally  dragged  him  from 
the  water.  When  she  had  further  helped  him  to  his 
feet,  Judy  surveyed  the  wretched  object  of  her  benefi 
cence  with  amused  and  curious  interest. 

The  man,  with  his  unkempt  hair,  unshaven,  hag 
gard  face,  bloodshot  eyes,  and  slovenly  dishevelled 
dress,  had  appeared  repulsive  enough  while  in  the 
boat ;  but,  now,  as  he  stood  dripping  with  water  and 
covered  with  mud,  there  was  a  touch  of  the  ridiculous 
in  his  appearance  that  brought  a  grin  to  the  un 
lovely  face  of  his  rescuer,  and  caused  her  to  exclaim 
with  unnecessary  frankness:  "I'll  be  dad  burned  if 
you-all  ain't  a  thing  ter  look  at,  mister !" 

As  the  poor  creature,  who  was  shaking  as  if  with 
the  ague,  regarded  the  twisted  form,  the  wry  neck, 
and  the  sallow,  old-young  face  of  the  girl,  who  was 

59 


THE  RE-CKEATION  OF  BKIAN  KENT 

laughing  at  him,  a  gleam  of  sardonic  humor  flashed 
in  his  bloodshot  eyes.  "Thanks,"  he  said,  huskily; 
"you  are  something  of  a  vision  yourself,  aren't  you  ?" 

The  laughter  went  from  Judy's  face  as  she  caught 
the  meaning  of  the  cruel  words.  "I  ain't  never  laid 
no  claim  ter  bein'  a  beauty,"  she  retorted  in  her  shrill, 
drawling  monotone.  "But,  I  kin  tell  you- all  one 
thing,  mister:  Hit  was  God-A'mighty  Hisself  an' 
my  drunken  pap  what  made  me  ter  look  like  I  do. 
While  you, — damn  you! — you-all  just  naturally 
made  yourself  what  you  be." 

At  the  mountain  girl's  illiterate  words,  so  pregnant 
with  meaning,  a  remarkable  change  came  over  the 
face  and  manner  of  the  man.  His  voice,  even,  for 
the  moment,  lost  its  huskiness,  and  vibrated  with  sin 
cere  feeling  as  he  steadied  himself ;  and,  bowing  with 
courteous  deference,  said :  "I  beg  your  pardon,  miss. 
That  was  unkind.  You  really  should  have  left  me 
to  the  river." 

"You-all  would  a-drownded,  sure,  if  I  had,"  she  re 
torted,  somewhat  mollified  by  the  effect  of  her  obser 
vation. 

"Which,"  he  returned,  "would  have  been  so  beauti 
fully  right  and  fitting  that  it  evidently  could  not  be." 

60 


THE  EE-CBEATIOX  OF  BKIAN  KEXT 

And  with  this  cynical  remark,  his  momentary  bearing 
of  self-respect  was  gone. 

"Are  you-all  a-meanin'  ter  say  that  you-all  was 
a-wantin'  ter  drown  ?" 

" Something  like  that,"  he  returned.  And  then, 
with  a  hint  of  ugliness  in  his  voice  and  eyes,  he 
rasped :  "But,  look  here,  girl !  do  you  think  I'm  going 
to  stand  like  this  all  day  indulging  in  idle  conversa 
tion  with  you  ?  Where  is  this  aunt  of  yours  ?  Can't 
you  see  that  I've  got  to  have  a  drink  ?" 

He  started  uncertainly  toward  the  steps  that  led 
to  the  top  of  the  bank,  and  Judy,  holding  him  by  his 
arm,  helped  him  to  climb  the  steep  way.  A  part  of 
the  ascent  he  made  on  hands  and  knees.  Several 
times  he  would  have  fallen  except  for  the  girl's  sup 
port.  But,  at  last,  they  gained  the  top,  and  stood  in 
the  garden. 

"That  there  is  the  house,"  said  Judy,  pointing. 
"But  I  don't  reckon  as  how  you-all  kin  git  ary  licker 
there." 

The  wretched  man  made  no  reply ;  but,  with  Judy 
still  supporting  him,  stumbled  forward  across  the 
rows  of  vegetables. 

The  two  had  nearly  reached  the  steps  at  the  end  of 
61 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

the  porch  when  Auntie  Sue  came  from  the  house  to 
see  why  Judy  did  not  return  with  the  potatoes.  The 
dear  old  lady  paused  a  moment,  startled  at  the  pres 
ence  of  the  unprepossessing  stranger  in  her  garden. 
Then,  with  an  exclamation  of  pity,  she  hurried  to 
meet  them. 

The  man,  whose  gaze  as  he  shambled  along  was 
fixed  on  the  ground,  did  not  notice  Auntie  Sue  until, 
feeling  Judy  stop,  he  also  paused,  and  raising  his 
head  looked  full  at  the  beautiful  old  lady. 

"Why,  Judy!"  cried  Auntie  Sue,  her  low,  sweet 
voice  filled  with  gentle  concern.  "What  in  the  world 
has  happened?" 

With  an  expression  of  questioning  bewilderment 
and  rebuke  on  his  haggard  face,  the  man  also  turned 
to  the  mountain  girl  beside  him. 

"I  found  him  in  er  John-boat  what  done  come 
ashore  last  night,  down  there  in  the  eddy,"  Judy 
explained  to  Auntie  Sue.  To  the  man,  she  said: 
"This  here  is  Auntie  Sue,  mister ;  but,  I  don't  reckon 
as  how  she's  got  ary  licker  for  you." 

"  'Liquor'  ?"  questioned  Auntie  Sue.  "What  in 
the  world  do  you  mean,  child?"  Then  quickly  to 
the  stranger ; — "My  dear  man,  you  are  wringing  wet. 

62 


THE  KE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

You  must  have  been  in  the  river.  Come,  come  right 
in,  and  let  us  do  something  for  you.'7  As  she  spoke, 
she  went  toward  him  with  outstretched  hands. 

But  the  wretched  creature  shrank  back  from  her, 
as  if  in  fear ; — his  whole  body  shaking  with  emotion ; 
his  fluttering  hands  raised  in  a  gesture  of  imploring 
protest ; — while  the  eyes  that  looked  up  at  the  saintly 
countenance  of  the  old  gentlewoman  were  the  eyes 
of  a  soul  sunken  in  the  deepest  hell  of  shame  and 
humiliation. 

Shocked  with  pitying  horror,  Auntie  Sue  paused. 

The  man's  haggard,  unshaven  face  twitched  and 
worked  with  the  pain  of  his  suffering.  He  bit  his 
lips  and  fingered  his  quivering  chin  in  a  vain  effort 
at  self-control ;  and  then,  as  he  looked  up  at  her,  the 
sunken,  bloodshot  eyes  filled  with  tears  that  the  tor 
mented  spirit  had  no  power  to  check. 

And  Auntie  Sue  turned  her  face  away. 

For  a  little,  they  stood  so.  Then,  as  Auntie  Sue 
faced  him  again,  the  stranger,  with  a  supreme  effort 
of  his  will,  gained  a  momentary  control  of  his  shat 
tered  nerves.  Drawing  himself  erect  and  standing 
steady  and  tall  before  her,  he  raised  a  hand  to  his 
uncovered  head  as  if  to  remove  his  hat.  When  his 

63 


THE  KE-CKEATION  OF  BKIAiST  KENT 

hand  found  no  hat  to  remove,  he  smiled  as  if  at 
some  jest  at  his  own  expense. 

"I  am  so  sorry,  madam,"  he  said, — and  his  voice 
was  musically  clear  and  cultured.  "Please  pardon 
me  for  disturbing  you  ?  I  did  not  know.  This  young 
woman  should  have  explained.  You  see,  when  she 
spoke  of  'Auntie  Sue/  I  assumed,  of  course, — I  mean, 
— I  expected  to  find  a  native  woman  who  would — " 
He  paused,  smiling  again,  as  if  to  assure  her  that 
he  fully  appreciated  the  humor  of  his  ridiculous 
predicament. 

"But,  my  dear  sir,"  cried  Auntie  Sue,  eagerly, 
"there  is  nothing  to  pardon.  Please  do  como  into 
the  house  and  let  us  help  you." 

But  the  stranger  drew  hack,  shaking  his  head 
sadly.  "You  do  not  understand,  madam.  It  is  not 
that  my  clothes  are  unpresentable, — it  is  I,  myself, 
who  am  unfit  to  stand  in  your  presence,  much  less 
to  enter  your  house.  I  thank  you,  but  I  must  go." 

He  was  turning  away,  when  Auntie  Sue  reached 
his  side  and  placed  her  gentle  old  hand  lightly  on  his 
arm. 

"Please,  won't  you  come  in,  sir?  I  shall  never 
forgive  myself  if  I  let  you  go  like  this." 

64 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

The  man's  voice  was  hoarse  and  shaking,  now,  as 
he  answered :  "For  God's  sake,  madam,  don't  touch 
me !  Let  me  go !  You  must !  I — I — am  not  my 
self !  You  might  not  be  safe  with  me!  Ask  her — 
she  knows!"  He  turned  to  Judy. 

"He's  done  said  hit,  ma'm,"  said  Judy,  in  answer 
to  Auntie  Sue's  questioning  look.  "My  pap,  he  was 
that  way  when  he  done  smashed  me  up  agin  the  wall, 
when  I  was  nothin'  but  a  baby,  an'  hit  made  me  grow 
up  all  crooked  an'  ugly  like  what  I  be  now." 

With  one  shamed  glance  at  Auntie  Sue,  the 
wretched  fellow  looked  down  at  the  ground.  His 
head  drooped  forward.  His  shoulders  sagged.  His 
whole  body  seemed  to  shrink.  Turning  sadly  away, 
he  again  started  back  toward  the  river. 

"Stop !"     Auntie  Sue's  voice  rang  out  imperiously 

The  man  halted. 

"Look  at  me,"  she  commanded. 

Slowly,  he  raised  his  eyes.  The  gentle  old  teacher 
spoke  with  fine  spirit,  now,  but  kindly  still :  "This 
is  sheer  nonsense,  my  boy.  You  wouldn't  hurt  me. 
Wfcv,  you  couldn't!  Of  course,  you  are  not  your 
self;  but,  do  you  think  that  I  do  not  know  a  gentle 
man  when  I  meet  one  ?  Come — "  She  held  out  her 
hand.  65 


THE  HE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

A  moment  he  stood,  gazing  at  her  in  wondering 
awe.  Then  his  far-overtaxed  strength  failed; — his 
abused  nerves  refused  to  bear  more, — and  he  sank, — a 
pitiful,  cowering  heap  at  her  feet.  Hiding  his  face 
in  his  shaking  hands,  he  sobbed  like  a  child. 


66 


CHAPTER  VI. 

IN  THE  LOG  HOUSE  BY  THE  RIVER. 

|HOSE  two  women  managed,  somehow,  to  get 
the  almost  helpless  stranger  into  the  house, 
where  Auntie  Sue,  after  providing  him  with 
nightclothes,  left  by  one  of  her  guests,  by  tactful 
entreaty  and  judicial  commands,  persuaded  him  to 
go  to  bed. 

Then  followed  several  days  and  nights  of  weary 
watching.  There  were  times  when  the  man  lay  with 
closed  eyes,  so  weak  and  exhausted  that  he  seemed  to 
be  drifting  out  from  these  earthly  shores  on  the  deep 
waters  of  that  wide  and  unknown  sea  into  which  all 
the  streams  of  life  finally  flow.  But,  always,  Auntie 
Sue  miraculously  held  him  back.  There  were  other 
times  when,  by  all  the  rules  of  the  game,  he  should 
have  worn  a  strait- jacket; — when  his  delirium 
filled  the  room  with  all  manner  of  horrid  creatures 
from  the  pit;  when  leering  devils  and  loathsome 
serpents  and  gibbering  apes  tormented  him  until  his 
unnatural  strength  was  the  strength  of  a  fiend,  and 

67 


THE  KE-CKEATION  OF  BKIA1ST  KENT 

his  tortured  nerves  shrieked  in  agony.  But  Auntie 
Sue  perversely  ignored  the  rules  of  the  game.  And 
never  did  the  man,  even  in  his  most  terrible  moments, 
fail  to  recognize  in  the  midst  of  the  hellish  crew  of 
his  diseased  imagination  the  silvery-haired  old  teacher 
as  the  angel  of  his  salvation.  Her  gentle  voice  had 
always  power  to  soothe  and  calm  him.  He  obeyed 
her  implicitly,  and,  like  a  frightened  child,  holding 
fast  to  her  hand  would  beg  piteously  for  her  to  pro 
tect  and  save  him. 

But  no  word  of  the  man's  low-muttered,  broken 
sentences,  nor  of  his  wildest  ravings,  ever  gave  Auntie 
Sue  a  clue  to  his  identity.  She  searched  his  clothes, 
but  there  was  not  a  thing  to  give  her  even  his  name. 

And,  yet,  that  first  day,  when  Judy  would  have 
gone  to  neighbor  Tom's  for  help,  Auntie  Sue  said 
"No."  She  even  positively  forbade  the  girl  to  men 
tion  the  stranger's  presence  in  the  house,  should  she 
chance  to  talk  with  passing  neighbors.  "The  river 
brought  him  to  us,  Judy,  dear,"  she  said.  "We  must 
save  him.  No  one  shall  know  his  shame,  to  humili 
ate  and  wound  his  pride  and  drag  him  down  after 
he  is  himself  again.  Until  he  has  recovered  and  is 
once  more  the  man  I  believe  him  to  be,  no  one  must 

68 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

see  him  or  know  that  he  is  here;  and  no  one  must 
ever  know  how  he  came  to  us." 

And  late,  one  evening,  when  Judy  was  fast  asleep, 
and  the  man  was  lying  very  still  after  a  period  of 
feverish  tossing  and  muttering,  the  dear  old  gentle 
woman  crept  quietly  out  of  the  house  into  the  night. 
She  was  gone  some  time,  and  when  she  returned 
again  to  the  stranger's  bedside  she  was  breathless  and 
trembling  as  from  some  unusual  exertion.  And  the 
following  afternoon,  when  Judy  came  to  her  with  the 
announcement  that  the  boat  which  had  brought  the 
man  to  them  was  no  longer  in  the  eddy  below  the 
garden,  Auntie  Sue  said,  simply,  that  she  was  glad 
it  was  gone,  and  cautioned  the  girl,  again,  that  the 
stranger's  presence  in  the  house  must  not  be  made 
known  to  any  one. 

When  the  mountain  girl  protested,  saying,  "You-all 
ain't  got  no  call  ter  be  a-wearin'  yourself  t-er  the  bone 
a-takin'  care  of  such  as  him,"  Auntie  Sue  answered, 
"Hush,  Judy !  How  do  you  know  what  the  poor  boy 
really  is?" 

To  which  Judy  retorted:  "He's  just  triflin'  an' 
ornery  an'  no  'count,  that's  what  he  is,  or  he  sure 
wouldn't  been  a-floatin'  'round  in  that  there  old  John- 

69 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

boat  'thout  ary  gun,  or  fishin'  lines,  or  hat  even,  ter 
say  nothin'  of  that  there  whisky  bottle  bein'  plumb 
empty." 

Auntie  Sue  made  no  reply  to  the  mountain  girl's 
harsh  summing-up  of  the  damning  evidence  against 
the  stranger,  but  left  her  and  went  softly  to  the  bed 
side  of  their  guest. 

It  was  perhaps  an  hour  later  that  Judy,  quietly 
entering  the  room,  happened  upon  a  scene  that  caused 
her  to  stand  as  if  rooted  to  the  spot  in  open-mouthed 
amazement. 

The  man  was  sleeping,  and  the  silvery-haired  old 
maiden-lady,  seated  on  the  side  of  the  bed,  was  bend 
ing  over  the  unconscious  stranger  and  gently  stroking 
his  tumbled,  red-brown  hair,  even  as  a  mother  might 
lovingly  caress  her  sleeping  child.  And  then,  as 
Judy  watched,  breathless  with  wonder,  the  proud  old 
gentlewoman,  bending  closer  over  that  still  form  on 
the  bed,  touched  her  lips — soft  as  a  rose-petal — to 
the  stranger's  brow. 

When  she  arose  and  saw  Judy  standing  there, 
Auntie  Sue's  delicate  old  cheeks  flushed  with  color, 
and  her  eyes  were  shining.  With  a  gesture,  she 
commanded  the  girl  to  silence,  and  the  two  tiptoed 

70 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

from  the  room.  When  they  were  outside,  and  Auntie 
Sue  had  cautiously  closed  the  door,  she  faced  the 
speechless  Judy  with  a  deliciously  defiant  air  that 
could  not  wholly  hide  her  lovely  confusion. 

"I — I — was  thinking,  Judy,  how  he — how  he — 
might  have  been — my  son." 

''Your  'son'!"  ejaculated  the  girl.  "Why,  ma'm, 
you-all  ain't  never  even  been  married,  as  I've  ever 
hearn  tell,  have  you?" 

Auntie  Sue  drew  her  thin  shoulders  proudly  erect, 
and,  lifting  her  fine  old  face,  answered  the  challeng 
ing  question  with  splendid  spirit :  "No,  I  have  never 
been  married ;  but  I  might  have  been ;  and  if  I  had,  I 
suppose  I  could  have  had  a  son,  couldn't  I  ?" 

The  vanquished  Judy  retreated  to  the  kitchen, 
where,  in  safety,  she  sank  into  a  chair,  convulsed 
with  laughter,  which  she  instinctively  muffled  in  her 
apron. 

Then  came  the  day  when  the  man,  weak  and  worn 
with  his  struggle,  looked  up  at  his  gentle  old  nurse 
with  the  light  of  sanity  in  his  deep  blue  eyes.  Very 
tired  eyes  they  were,  and  filled  with  painful  mem 
ories, — filled,  too,  with  worshipping  gratitude  and 
wonder. 

71 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN"  KEJST 

She  smiled  down  at  him  with  delighted  triumph, 
and  drawing  a  chair  close  beside  the  bed,  seated  her 
self  and  placed  her  soft  hand  on  his  where  it  lay  on 
the  coverlid. 

"You  are  much  better,  this  morning,"  she  said 
cheerily.  "You  will  soon  be  all  right,  now."  And 
as  she  looked  into  the  eyes  that  regarded  hers  so 
questioningly,  there  was  in  her  face  and  manner  no 
hint  of  doubt,  or  pretense,  or  reproach; — only  con 
fidence  and  love. 

He  spoke  slowly,  as  if  feeling  for  words :  "I  have 
been  in  Hell;  and  you — you  have  brought  me  out. 
Why  did  you  do  it?" 

"Because  you  are  mine,"  she  answered,  with  her 
low  chuckling  laugh.  It  was  so  good  to  have  him 
able  to  talk  to  her  rationally  after  those  long  hours 
of  fighting. 

"Because  I  am  yours  ?"  he  repeated,  puzzling  over 
her  words. 

"Yes,"  she  returned,  with  a  hint  of  determined 
proprietorship  in  her  voice;  "because  you  belong  to 
me.  You  see,  that  eddy  where  your  boat  landed  is 
my  property,  and  so  anything  that  drifts  down  the 
river  and  lodges  there  belongs  to  me.  Whatever  the 

72 


THE  RE-CKEATIOX  OF  BRIAN  KE1ST 

river  brings  to  me,  is  mine.  The  river  brought  you, 
and  so — "  She  finished  with  another  laugh, — a  laugh 
that  was  filled  with  tender  mother-yearning. 

The  blue  eyes  smiled  back  at  her  for  a  moment; 
then  she  saw  them  darken  with  painful  memories. 

"Oh,  yes ;  the  river,"  he  said.  "I  wanted  the  river 
to  do  something  for  me,  and — and  it  did  something 
quite  different  from  what  I  wanted." 

"Of  course,"  she  returned,  eagerly,  "the  river  is 
always  like  that.  It  always  does  the  thing  you  don't 
expect  it  to  do.  Just  like  life  itself.  Don't  you  see  ? 
It  begins  somewhere  away  off  at  some  little  spring, 
and  just  keeps  going  and  going  and  going;  and  thou 
sands  and  thousands  of  other  springs,  scattered  all 
over  the  country,  start  streams  and  creeks  and 
branches  that  run  into  it,  and  make  it  bigger  and 
bigger,  as  it  winds  and  curves  and  twists  along,  until 
it  finally  reaches  the  great  sea,  where  its  waters  are 
united  with  all  the  waters  from  all  the  rivers  in  all 
the  world.  And  in  all  of  its  many,  many  miles,  from 
that  first  tiny  spring  to  the  sea,  there  are  not  two 
feet  of  it  exactly  alike.  In  all  the  centuries  of  its 
being,  there  are  never  two  hours  alike.  An  infinite 
variety  of  days  and  nights — an  infinite  variety  of 

73 


THE  KE-CKEATION  OF  BKIAN  KENT 

skies  and  light  and  clouds  and  daybreaks  and  sun 
sets — an  infinite  number  and  variety  of  currents  and 
shoals  and  deep  places  and  quiet  spots  and  dangerous 
rapids  and  eddies — and,  along  its  banks,  an  endless 
change  of  hills  and  mountains  and  flats  and  forests 
and  meadows  and  farms  and  cities — and — "  She 
paused,  breathless.  And  then,  when  he  did  not  speak, 
but  only  watched  her,  she  continued:  "Don't  you 
see?  Of  course,  the  river  never  could  be  what  you 
expect,  any  more  than  life  could  be  exactly  what  you 
want  and  dream  it  will  be," 

"Who  in  the  world  are  you?"  he  asked,  wonder- 
ingly.  "And  what  in  the  world  are  you  doing  here 
in  the  backwoods  ?" 

Smiling  at  his  puzzled  expression,  she  answered: 
"I  am  Auntie  Sue.  I  am  living  here  in  the  back 
woods." 

"But,  your  real  name?  Won't  you  tell  me  your 
name  ?  I  must  know  how  to  address  you." 

"Oh,  my  name  is  Susan  E.  WTakefield — Miss  Wake- 
field,  if  you  please.  I  shall  be  seventy-one  years  old 
the  eighteenth  day  of  next  November.  And  you 
must  call  me  ( Auntie  Sue/ — just  as  every  one  else 
does." 

74 


THE  KE-CKEATION  OF  BKIAN  KENT 

"Wakefield — Wakefield — where  have  I  seen  that 
name?"  He  wrinkled  his  brow  in  an  effort  to  re 
member.  "Wakefield — I  feel  sure  that  I  have  heard 
it,  somewhere." 

"It  is  not  unlikely,"  she  returned,  lightly.  "It 
is  not  at  all  an  uncommon  name.  And  now  that  I 
am  properly  introduced,  don't  you  think — ?" 

He  hesitated  a  moment,  then  said,  deliberately, 
"My  name  is  Brian  Kent." 

"'That  is  an  Irish  name,"  she  said  quickly;  "'and 
that  is  why  your  hair  is  so  nearly  red  and  your  eyes 
so  blue." 

"Yes,"  he  returned,  "from  my  mother.  And  please 
don't  ask  me  more  now,  for  I  can't  lie  to  you,  and  I 
won't  tell  you  the  truth."  And  she  saw,  again,  the 
dark  shadows  of  painful  memories  come  into  the  blue 
eyes. 

Bending  over  the  bed,  she  laid  her  soft  hand  on 
his  brow,  and  pushed  back  his  heavy  hair;  and  her 
sweet  old  voice  was  very  low  and  gentle  as  she  said : 
"My  dear  boy,  I  shall  never  ask  you  more.  The 
river  brought  you  to  me,  and  you  are  mine.  You 
must  not  even  think  of  anything  else,  just  now. 


75 


THE  KE-CKEATION  OF  BKIAN  KENT 

When  you  are  stronger,  and  are  ready,  we  will  talk 
of  your  future ;  but  of  your  past,  you — " 

A  loud  knock  sounded  at  the  door  of  the  living 
room. 

"There  is  someone  at  the  door/'  she  said  hastily. 
"I  must  go.  Lie  still,  and  go  to  sleep  like  a  good 
boy;  won't  you?" 

Swiftly,  she  leaned  over,  and,  before  lie  realized, 
he  felt  her  lips  touch  his  forehead.  Then  she  was 
gone,  and  Brian  Kent's  Irish  eyes  were  filled  with 
tears.  Turning  to  the  wall,  he  hid  his  face  in  the 
pillow. 


76 


CHAPTER  VII. 

OFFICERS  OF  THE  LAW. 

|S  Auntie  Sue  was  closing  the  door  of  her 
guest's  room  carefully  behind  her,  Judy  came 
from  the  kitchen  in  great  excitement,  and 
the  knocking  at  the  front  door  of  the  house  was 
repeated. 

"Hit's  the  Sheriff,  ma'm,"  whispered  Judy.  "I 
was  just  a-coinin'  ter  tell  you.  I  seed  'em  from  the 
kitchen-winder.  He's  got  two  other  men  with  him. 
Their  hosses  is  tied  ter  the  fence  in  front.  What  in 
hell  will  we  do,  now?  They  are  after  him  in  there, 
sure  ?s  death!" 

Auntie  Sue's  face  was  white,  and  her  lips  trem 
bled, — but  only  for  a  moment. 

"Go  back  into  the  kitchen,  Judy,  and  stay  there," 
she  commanded,  in  a  whisper ;  and  went  to  open  the 
front  door  as  calmly  as  if  nothing  unusual  had 
happened. 

Sheriff  Knox  was  a  big  man,  with  a  bluff,  kindly 
manner,  and  a  voice  that  made  nothing  of  closed 

77 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

doors.  He  returned  Auntie  Sue's  greeting  heartily, 
and,  with  one  of  his  companions, — a  quiet,  business- 
looking  gentleman, — accepted  her  cordial  invitation 
to  come  in.  The  third  man  of  the  party  remained 
near  the  saddle-horses  at  the  gate. 

"Well,  Auntie  Sue,"  said  the  Sheriff,  settling  his 
ponderous  bulk  in  one  of  the  old  lady's  rocking- 
chairs,  which  certainly  was  not  built  to  carry  such 
a  weight,  "how  are  you?  I  haven't  seen  you  in  a 
coon's  age.  I'll  swear,  though,  you  ain't  a  minute 
older  than  you  was  when  you  first  begun  teachin' 
the  little  Elbow  Rock  school  up  there  on  the  hill,  are 
you?" 

"I  don't  know,  Sheriff,"  Auntie  Sue  returned,  with 
a  nervous  little  laugh.  "I  sometimes  think  that  I 
am  a  few  days  older.  I  have  watched  a  good  many 
sunsets  since  then,  you  know." 

The  big  officer's  laughter  almost  shook  the  log 
walls  of  the  house.  To  his  quiet  companion,  who 
had  taken  a  chair  near  the  window,  he  said:  "I'll 
have  to  tell  you,  Ross,  that  Auntie  Sue  owns  every 
sunset  in  these  Ozark  Mountains.  What  was  it  you 
paid  for  them?"  He  turned  again  to  their  smiling 
hostess.  "Oh,  yes;  fifty  cents  an  acre  for  the  land 

78 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

and  fourteen  dollars  and  a  half  for  the  sunsets. 
You'll  have  to  be  blamed  careful  not  to  trespass  on 
the  sunsets  in  this  neighborhood,  Ross."  Again,  his 
hearty  laugh  roared  out,  while  his  chair  threatened  to 
collapse  with  the  quaking  of  his  massive  body. 

The  gentleman  seated  at  the  window  laughed 
quietly,  in  sympathy. 

"You'll  be  all  right,  though,  Ross/7  the  Sheriff 
continued,  "as  long  as  you're  with  me.  Auntie  Sue 
and  me  have  been  friends  for  about  twenty  year, 
now.  I  always  stop  to  see  her  whenever  I'm  passing 
through  the  Elbow  Rock  neighborhood,  if  I  ain't  in 
too  big  a  hurry.  Stayed  with  her  a  week,  once, 
five  years  ago,  when  we  was  after  that  Lewis  gang. 
She  knows  I'd  jail  any  man  on  earth  that  would  even 
touch  one  of  her  sunsets." 

Then,  as  if  the  jesting  allusion  to  his  office  re 
minded  him  of  his  professional  duties,  he  added :  "I 
plumb  forgot,  Auntie  Sue,  this  gentleman  is  Mr. 
Ross.  He  is  one  of  William  J.  Burns's  crack  de 
tectives.  Don't  be  scared,  though,  he  ain't  after 
you." 

Auntie  Sue,  while  joining  in  the  laughter,  and 
acknowledging  the  introduction,  regarded  the  busi- 

79 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

ness-looking  gentleman  by  the  window  with  intense 
interest. 

"I  think,"  she  said,  slowly, — and  the  sweetness  of 
her  low,  cultured  voice  was  very  marked  in  contrast 
to  the  Sheriff's  thundering  tones, — "I  think,  sir,  that 
this  is  the  first  time  in  my  life  that  I  ever  saw  a  real 
detective.  I  have  read  about  them,  of  course." 

Mr.  Ross  was  captivated  by  the  charm  of  this 
beautiful  old  gentlewoman,  who  regarded  him  with 
such  child-like  interest,  and  who  spoke  with  such 
sweet  frankness  and  dignity.  Smilingly,  he  returned : 
"I  fear,  naadam,  that  you  would  find  me  very  dis 
appointing.  No  one  that  I  ever  knew  in  my  pro 
fession  could  hope  to  live  up  to  the  reputation  given 
us  by  the  story-books.  No  secret  service  man  living 
can  remotely  approximate  the  deeds  performed  by 
the  detectives  of  fiction.  We  are  very,  very  human, 
I  can  assure  you." 

"I  am  sure  that  you,  at  least,  must  be  very  kind," 
returned  Auntie  Sue,  gently.  And  the  cheeks  of  the 
experienced  officer  flushed  like  the  cheeks  of  a  school 
boy. 

"Mr.  Ross,  Auntie  Sue,"  said  the  Sheriff,  "is,  as 


80 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

I  was  telling  you,  one  of  William  J.  Burns's  big 
men." 

Auntie  Sue  gave  her  attention  to  her  big  friend: 
"Yes?" 

The  Sheriff  continued :  "Now,  the  Burns  people, 
you  see,  protect  the  banks  all  over  the  country." 

"Yes?"  came,  again,  in  a  tone  so  low  and  gentle 
that  the  monosyllable  was  scarcely  heard. 

The  officer's  loud  voice  went  on :  "And  Mr.  Ross, 
here,  works  most  of  his  time  on  these  bank  cases. 
Just  now,  he  is  trailing  a  fellow  that  got  away  with 
a  lot  of  money  from  the  Empire  Consolidated  Savings 
Bank,  of  Chicago,  about  a  month  ago; — that  is,  the 
man  disappeared  about  a  month  ago.  He  had  been 
stealing  along  from  the  bank  for  about  a  year, — 
worked  for  them,  you  see." 

"The  Empire  Consolidated  Savings  Bank !"  Auntie 
Sue  spoke  the  words  in  a  voice  that  was  little  more 
than  a  whisper.  It  was  to  the  Empire  Consolidated 
Savings  Bank  that  she  had  sent  the  money  which  she 
had  received  from  her  brother  in  Buenos  Airee.;  and 
Homer  T.  Ward,  the  president  of  that  bank,  was  one 
of  her  old  pupils.  Why,  her  stranger  guest,  in  the 


81 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

other  room  there,  was  that  very  moment  wearing  one 
of  the  bank  president's  nightshirts. 

"And  do  you" — Auntie  Sue  addressed  the  de 
tective — "do  you  know  the  man's  name,  Mr.  Ross  ?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  returned  the  officer,  "his  name  is  Brian 
Kent." 

Some  source  of  strength,  deep-hidden  in  her  gentle 
nature,  enabled  Auntie  Sue  to  control  her  emotions, 
though  her  voice  broke  a  little  as  she  slowly  repeated 
the  man's  name,  "Brian  Kent.  And  do  I  under 
stand,  sir,  that  you  have  traced  the  man  to  this — 
neighborhood  ?" 

The  detective  was  too  skilled  not  to  notice  Auntie 
Sue's  manner  and  the  break  in  her  voice ;  but  he  never 
dreamed  that  this  old  gentlewoman's  agitation  was 
caused  by  a  deeper  interest  than  a  quite  natural  fear 
that  a  dangerous  criminal  might  be  lurking  in  the 
immediate  vicinity. 

"Not  exactly,  Mrs. — ah — " 

"Miss  Wakefield," — she  supplied  her  name  with  a 
smile. 

With  a  courteous  bow,  the  detective  continued: 
"We  do  not  know  for  sure  that  the  man  is  in  this 
neighborhood,  Miss  Wakefield.  There  is  really  no 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

cause  for  you  to  be  alarmed.  Even  if  he  should  call 
at  your  house,  here,  you  need  not  be  frightened,  for 
I  assure  you  the  man  is  not  at  all  a  dangerous  char 
acter." 

"I  am  glad,"  said  Auntie  Sue;  and  she  laughed  a 
little  with  a  relief  more  genuine  than  her  callers 
knew. 

Detective  Ross  continued  as  if  anxious  to  finish 
his  unpleasant  duty:  "It  is  too  bad  for  us  to  be 
disturbing  you  with  this  business,  Miss  Wakefield, 
and  I  hope  you  will  forgive  us ;  but,  the  case  is  like 
this:  We  traced  our  man  to  the  little  town  of 
Borden,  some  forty  miles  up  the  river  from  here. 
He  disappeared  from  the  hotel  one  night,  leaving  his 
suit-case  and,  apparently,  everything  he  had  with 
him,  and  not  a  soul  that  we  can  find  has  seen  him 
since.  Of  course,  everybody  says  'suicide.'  He  had 
been  drinking  heavily  and  acting  rather  queer  the 
two  or  three  days  he  was  at  the  hotel, — it  seems. 
But  I  am  not  willing,  yet,  to  accept  the  suicide  idea 
as  final,  because  it  would  be  too  easy  for  him  to  give 
things  that  appearance  in  order  to  throw  us  off;  and 
I  can't  get  away  from  the  fact  that  a  John-boat  that 
was  tied  to  the  bank  near  the  hotel  managed  to  break 

83 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

loose  and  drift  off  down  the  river  that  same  night. 
Working  on  my  theory,  we  are  following  down  the 
river,  trying  to  get  trace  of  either  the  boat  or  the 
man.  So  far,  we  haven't  heard  of  either,  which 
rather  strengthens  me  in  my  belief  that  the  boat  and 
the  man  went  away  together.  He  is  probably  travel 
ing  nights,  and  lying  up  under  the  willows  in  day 
light.  But  he  will  be  compelled  to  show  himself 
somewhere,  soon,  in  order  to  get  something  to  eat,  for 
he  couldn't  have  taken  much  with  him,  trying,  as  he 
was,  to  create  the  impression  that  he  had  committed 
suicide.  You  have  a  wonderful  view  of  the  river 
here,  Miss  Wakefield." 

"Yes,  sir;  it  is  beautiful  from  the  porch.77 

"You  spend  a  good  deal  of  time  on  the  porch,  do 
you?" 

"Yes,  sir.77 

"And  you  would  be  quite  likely  to  notice  any  boat 
passing,  wouldn't  you?77 

"Yes,  sir.77 

"Could  you  see  a  boat  at  night, — in  the  moonlight, 
I  mean  ?" 

"I  could  if  it  were  well  out  in  the  middle  of  the 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

stream,  away  from  the  shadow  of  the  trees,  along  the 
bank." 

"Have  you  seen  any  boats  pass  lately,  Miss  Wake- 
field?" 

"No,  sir ;  I  haven't  seen  a  boat  on  the  river  for  a 
month,  at  least." 

"Dead  certain  about  it,  are  you,  Auntie  Sue?" 
asked  the  Sheriff. 

"Yes,  sir;  I  am  very  sure,"  she  returned.  "Judy 
and  I  were  talking  about  it  yesterday." 

"Who  is  Judy  ?"  asked  the  detective. 

The  Sheriff  answered,  "Just  a  girl  that  lives  with 
Auntie  Sue." 

And  Auntie  Sue  added:  "I  know  Judy  has  seen 
no  boats  passing,  because,  as  I  say,  we  were  talking 
about  it." 

"I  see,"  said  the  detective.  "And  may  I  ask, 
Miss  Wakefield,  if  any  one — any  stranger,  I  mean — 
has  called  at  the  house  lately,  or  if  you  have  seen  any 
one  in  the  vicinity  ?" 

The  gentle  old  lady  hesitated. 

The  officers  thought  she  was  searching  her  memory 
to  be  sure  before  she  answered. 


85 


THE  KE-CKEATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

Then  Auntie  Sue  said,  deliberately:  "No,  sir; 
we  have  not  seen  a  stranger  in  this  vicinity  for  sev 
eral  weeks.  The  last  one  was  a  mule-buyer,  who 
stopped  to  ask  if  he  was  on  the  right  road  to  Tom 
Warden's;  and  that  must  have  been  fully  six  weeks 


The  detective  looked  at  Sheriff  Knox. 
.  "Well,"  said  the  big  officer,  "I  reckon  we  might 
as  well  push  along." 

The  two  men  arose. 

"Oh,  but  surely  you  will  stay  for  dinner,"  said 
Auntie  Sue,  while  her  dear  heart  was  faint  with  fear 
lest  they  accept,  and  thus  bring  about  who  could  say 
what  disastrous  consequences  through  their  meeting 
with  Judy. 

"Not  this  time,  Auntie  Sue,"  returned  the  Sheriff. 
"Mr.  Ross  is  anxious  to  get  on  down  the  river  as  fast 
as  he  can.  He's  got  men  on  watch  at  White's  Cross 
ing,  and  if  our  man  ain't  passed  there,  or  if  we  don't 
strike  his  trail  somewhere  before  we  get  there,  we 
will  jump  back  on  the  railroad,  and  get  some  boy  to 
bring  the  horses  through  later." 

"I  see,"  returned  Auntie  Sue.  And  to  the  detective 
she  added,  smiling:  "I  am  sure  it  must  be  very 

86 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN"  KENT 

difficult  for  any  one  to  escape  you,  Mr.  Ross.  I  have 
read  such  wonderful  things  about  Mr.  Burns  and  the 
work  of  his  organization;  and  now  that  I  have  met 
you, — a  real  live  detective, — I  shall  be  very  careful, 
indeed,  about  what  I  do  in  the  future.  I  shouldn't 
want  to  have  you  on  my  track,  I  assure  you." 

The  two  men  laughed  heartily,  and  the  detective, 
as  he  extended  his  hand  in  farewell,  returned:  "I 
count  it  a  great  privilege  to  have  met  you,  Miss 
Wakefield;  and  if  you  will  promise  to  do  one  thing 
for  me,  I'll  agree  to  be  very  lenient  with  you  if  I  am 
ever  assigned  to  a  case  in  which  you  are  to  be  brought 
to  justice." 

"I  promise,"  returned  the  old  lady,  quickly.  "I 
really  wouldn't  dare  to  refuse  under  the  circum 
stances,  would  I  ?  What  do  you  want  me  to  do,  Mr. 
Ross?" 

"If  this  man  Brian  Kent  should  happen  to  appear 
in  this  vicinity,  will  you  get  a  message  as  quickly 
as  possible,  at  any  cost,  to  Sheriff  Knox  ?" 

"Why,  of  course,"  agreed  Auntie  Sue.  "But  you 
have  not  yet  told  me  what  the  man  looks  like,  Mr. 
Ross." 

"He  is  really  a  fine  looking  chap,"  the  detective 

87 


THE  KE-CKEATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

answered.  "Thirty  years  old — fully  six  feet  tall — 
rather  slender,  but  well  built — weighs  about  one 
hundred  fifty — a  splendid  head — smooth  shaven — 
reddish  hair — dark  blue  eyes — and  a  high,  broad 
forehead.  He  is  of  Irish  extraction — is  cultured — 
very  courteous  in  his  manner  and  speech — dresses 
well — and  knows  a  lot  about  books  and  authors  and 
such  things." 

"I  would  surely  know  him  from  that  description," 
said  Auntie  Sue,  thinking  of  the  wretched  creature 
who  had  fallen,  sobbing,  at  her  feet  so  short  a  time 
before.  "But,  you  do  not  make  him  seem  like  a 
criminal  at  all.  It  is  strange  that  a  man  such  as 
you  describe  should  be  a  fugitive  from  the  law,  is  it 
not?" 

"We  come  in  contact  with  many  strange  things  in 
our  business,  Miss  Wakefield,"  the  Burns  operative 
answered — a  little  sadly,  Auntie  Sue  thought.  "Life 
itself  is  so  strange  and  complex,  though  you  in  your 
quiet  retreat,  here,  can  scarcely  find  it  so." 

"Indeed,  I  find  life  very  wonderful,  Mr.  Ross, 
even  here  in  my  little  house  by  the  river,"  she  an 
swered,  slowly. 


88 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

Sheriff  Knox  held  out  a  newspaper  to  Auntie  Sue : 
"Just  happened  to  remember  that  I  had  it  in  my 
pocket,"  he  said.  "It  gives  a  pretty  full  account  of 
this  fellow  Kent's  case.  You  will  notice  there  is  a 
big  reward  offered  for  his  capture.  If  you  can  catch 
him  for  us,  you'll  make  enough  money  to  keep  you 
mighty  nigh  all  the  rest  of  your  life."  And  the  offi 
cer's  great  laugh  boomed  out  at  the  thought  of  the 
old  school-teacher  as  a  thief -catcher. 

"By  the  way,  Sheriff,"  said  Auntie  Sue,  as  they 
were  finally  saying  good-bye  at  the  door,  "you  didn't 
happen  to  ask  at  Thompsonville  for  my  mail,  did  you, 
as  you  came  through?"  Her  voice  was  trembling, 
now,  with  eagerness  and  anxiety. 

"I'm  plumb  sorry,  Auntie  Sue,  but  I  didn't. 
You  see,  we  were  so  busy  on  this  job,  I  clean  forgot 
about  stopping  here;  and,  besides,  we  might  have 
caught  our  man  before  we  got  this  far,  you  see." 

"Of  course,"  returned  Auntie  Sue,  "I  should  have 
thought  of  that ;  but  I  have  been  rather  anxious  about 
an  important  letter  that  seems  to  have  been  delayed. 
Some  of  the  neighbors  will  probably  be  going  to  the 
office  to-day,  though.  Good-bye !  You  know  you  are 


89 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

always  welcome,  Sheriff;  and  you,  too,  Mr.  Ross,  if 
you  should  ever  happen  to  be  in  this  part  of  the 
country  again. " 

"A  wonderful  old  woman,  Ross,"  commented 
Sheriff  Knox  as  they  were  riding  away.  And  the 
quiet,  business-looking  detective,  whose  life  had  been 
spent  in  combating  crime  and  deception,  answered, 
as  he  waved  farewell  to  Auntie  Sue,  who  watched 
them  from  the  door  of  the  little  log  house  by  the 
river,  "A  very  wonderful  woman,  indeed, — the  love 
liest  old  lady  I  have  ever  met, — and  the  most 
remarkable." 


90 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

THAT  WHICH  IS  GREATER  THAN  THE  LAW. 

HE 2s"  she  bad  watched  Sheriff  Knox  and  his 
two  companions  ride  out  of  sight,  Auntie  Sue 
turned  slowly  back  into  the  house  to  face 
Judy,  who  stood  accusingly  in  the  kitchen  doorway. 

For  what  seemed  a  long  time,  the  old  gentlewoman 
and  the  deformed  mountain  girl  stood  silently  looking 
at  each  other.  Then  Auntie  Sue  nervously  crossed 
the  room  to  lay  the  newspaper,  which  the  Sheriff  had 
given  her,  on  the  table  beside  her  basket  of  sewing. 

Without  speaking,  Judy  followed  her,  watching 
every  movement  intently. 

Turning  to  face  her  companion  again,  Auntie  Sue 
stood,  still  speechless,  clasping  and  unclasping  her 
thin  old  hands. 

Judy  spoke  in  her  shrill,  drawling  monotone: 
"You-all  have  sure  fixed  hit  this  here  time,  hain't 
you  ?  Can't  you-all  see  what  a  hell  of  a  hole  you've 
done  got  us  inter?" 

^Yhen   Auntie    Sue   apparently   could   not   reply, 

91 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

Judy  continued:  aJust  as  if  hit  wasn't  more  'n 
enough  for  you-all  ter  go  an*  wear  yourself  plumb 
out  a-takin'  keer  of  that  there  ornery,  no-'count  feller, 
what  I  never  ought  ter  dragged  out  of  the  river 
nohow.  An',  now,  you-all  got  ter  go  an'  just 
naturally  lie  like  you  did  ter  the  Sheriff  an'  that 
there  deteckertive  man.  I  was  plumh  scared  to 
death  a-listenin'  ter  you  through  the  crack  in  the 
kitchen  door.  I  'lowed  every  minute  they'd  ketch 
you,  sure.  My  Lord-A'mighty !  ma'm,  can't  you-all 
figger  what'll  happen  ter  weuns  if  they  ever  finds  out 
that  weuns  done  had  him  hid  right  here  in  this  here 
house  all  the  time  ?  I  never  heard  tell  of  such  dad 
burned,  fool  doin's  in  all  my  born  days  !  I  sure  wish 
ter  God  that  there  old  John-boat  had  a-tuck  him  off 
down  the  river  an'  smashed  him  up  agin  Elbow  Rock, 
like  hit  ort,  an'  not  a-fetched  him  ter  our  door  ter  git 
weuns  in  jail  for  savin'  his  worthless,  no-'count  hide, 
—I  sure  do !" 

"But,  Judy,  I  never  in  all  my  life  did  such  a 
thing  before,"  said  Auntie  Sue  in  a  "tremulous 
whisper,  too  overwrought  to  speak  aloud. 

"You-all  ain't  a-needin'  ter  do  hit  but  onct,  neither. 
Onct  is  sure  a  heap  plenty  for  that  there  big  Sheriff 

92 


THE  EE-CREATIOX  OF  BKIAlSr  KEKT 

man.  Just  look  what  he  did  ter  iny  pap!  He's 
jailed  pap  seven  times,  that  I  kin  rec'lect.  God- 
A'mighty  knows  how  many  times  he  kstched  him  'fore 
I  was  borned.  An'  pap,  he  didn't  do  so  mighty  much 
ary  time,  neither." 

"I  just  had  to  do  it,  Judy,  dear,"  protested  Auntie 
Sue.  "It  seemed  as  if  I  simply  could  not  tell  the 
truth:  something  wouldn't  let  me." 

Judy,  unheeding  her  companion's  agitation,  con 
tinued  reviewing  the  situation:  "An'  just  look  at 
all  the  money  you-all  done  lost !" 

"Money  ?"  questioned  Auntie  Sue. 

"Yep,  'money:' — that  there  reward  what  they'd 
a-paid  you-all  if  you-all  hadn't  a-lied  like  you  did. 
I  reckon  as  how  there'd  a-been  as  much,  maybe,  as 
what  was  in  that  there  letter  you-all  done  sent  ter  the 
bank  an'  ain't  never  heard  tell  of  since.  Hit's  most 
likely  clean  gone  by  now,  an'  here  you  done  gone  an' 
throw'd  this  other  away, — plumb  throw'd  hit  away !" 

At  this,  Auntie  Sue's  spirit  suddenly  flashed  into 
fiery  indignation. 

"Judith  Taylor,"  she  said  sharply,  "how  can  you 
suggest  such  a  wicked  thing?  Why,  I  would — I 
would — die  before  I  would  accept  a  penny  for  doing 
such  a  thing!" 

93 


THE  RE-CEEATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

And  it  was  Judy,  now,  who  stood  silent  and 
abashed  before  the  aroused  Auntie  Sue. 

"Don't  ever  speak  of  such  a  thing  again!"  con 
tinued  the  old  lady.  "And  remember,  we  must  be 
more  careful  than  ever,  now,  not  to  let  any  one — 
not  a  soul — know  that  Mr. — Mr. — Burns  is  in  the 
house,  or  that  we  ever  saw  him!" 

"That  there  deteckertive  man  said  as  how  the 
feller's  name  was  Brian  Kent,  didn't  he  ?"  muttered 
the  sullen  Judy. 

"I  don't  care  what  the  detective  man  said!"  re 
torted  Auntie  Sue.  "I  am  telling  you  that  his  name 
is  Brian  Burns,  and  you  had  better  remember  it! 
You  had  better  remember,  too,  that  if  anybody  ever 
finds  out  the  truth  about  him,  you  and  I  will  go  right 
along  to  jail  with  him!" 

"Yes,  ma'm;  I  sure  ain't  aimin'  ter  forgit  that," 
replied  the  humbled  Judy;  and  she  slouched  away 
to  the  kitchen. 

Auntie  Sue  went  to  the  door  of  Brian  Kent's  room. 
But,  with  her  hand  outstretched  toward  the  latch,  she 
hesitated.  Had  he  heard  ?  The  Sheriff's  voice  had 
been  so  loud.  She  feared  to  enter,  yet  she  knew  that 
she  must.  At  last,  she  knocked  timidly,  and,  when 

94 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

there  was  no  answer,  knocked  again,  louder.  Cau 
tiously,  she  opened  the  door. 

The  man  lay  with  his  face  to  the  wall, — to  all 
appearances  fast  asleep. 

She  tiptoed  to  the  bed,  and  stood  looking  down 
upon  the  stranger  for  whom,  without  a  shadow  of 
reason, — one  would  have  said, — she  had  violated  one 
of  the  most  deeply  rooted  principles  of  her  seventy 
years. 

To  Auntie  Sue,  daughter  of  New  England  Puri 
tanism,  and  religious  to  the  deeps  of  her  being,  a  lie 
was  abhorrent, — and  she  had  lied, — deliberately,  care 
fully,  and  with  painstaking  skill  she  had  lied.  Sho 
had  not  merely  evaded  the  truth ;  she  had  lied, — and 
that  to  save  a  man  of  whom  she  knew  nothing  except 
that  he  was  a  fugitive  from  the  law.  And  the 
strangest  thing  about  it  was  this,  that  she  was  glad. 
She  could  not  feel  one  twinge  of  regret  for  her  sin. 
She  could  not  even  feel  that  she  had,  indeed,  sinned. 
She  had  even  a  feeling  of  pride  and  triumph  that  she 
had  lied  so  successfully.  She  was  troubled,  though, 
about  this  new  and  wholly  unexpected  development 
in  her  life.  It  had  been  so  easy  for  her.  She  had 
lied  so  naturally,  so  instinctively. 

95 


THE  KE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

She  remembered  how  she  had  spoken  to  Brian  Kent 
of  the  river  and  of  life.  She  saw,  now,  that  the  river 
symbolized  not  only  life  as  a  whole,  with  its  many 
ever-changing  conditions  and  currents,  amid  which 
the  individual  must  live; — the  river  symbolized,  as 
truly,  the  individual  life,  with  its  ever-changing 
moods  and  motives, — its  ever-varying  and  often-con 
flicting  currents  of  instinct  and  training, — its  infinite 
variety  of  intellectual  deeps  and  shallows, — its  gentle 
places  of  spiritual  calm, — and  its  wild  and  turbulent 
rapids  of  dangerous  passion. 

"What  hitherto  unsuspected  currents  in  her  life- 
river,"  she  asked  herself,  "had  carried  her  so  easily 
into  falsehood  ?  What  strange  forces  were  these,'7  she 
wondered,  "that  had  set  her  so  suddenly  against 
honesty  and  truthfulness  and  law  and  justice?  And 
this  stranger, — this  wretched,  haggard-faced,  drunken 
creature,  who  had  been  brought  by  the  mysterious 
currents  of  life  to  her  door, — what  was  there  in  him 
that  so  compelled  her  protecting  interest?  What 
was  it  within  him,  deeply  hidden  under  the  repellent 
exterior  of  his  being,  that  had  so  awakened  in  her 
that  strange  feeling  of  possession, — of  motherhood  ?" 

It  was  not  strange  that,  in  her  mental  and  spiritual 

96 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

extremity,  the  dear  old  gentlewoman's  life-long  habit 
should  lead  her  to  kneel  beside  the  stranger's  bed  and 
pray  for  understanding  and  guidance.  It  was  signifi 
cant  that  she  did  not  ask  her  God  to  forgive  the 
lie. 

And,  presently,  as  she  prayed,  she  felt  the  man 
on  the  bed  move.  Then  a  hand  lightly  touched  her 
hair.  She  remained  very  still  for  a  little, — her  head 
still  bowed.  The  hand  that  touched  so  reverently  the 
silvery  gray  hair  trembled  a  little.  Slowiy,  the  old 
teacher  raised  her  face  to  look  at  him ;  and  the  Irish 
blue  eyes  of  Brian  Kent  were  wide  with  wondering 
awe  and  glowing  with  a  light  that  warmed  her  heart 
and  strengthened  her. 

"Why  did  you  do  it  ?"  he  asked.  "You  wonderful, 
wonderful  woman !  Why  did  you  do  it  ?" 

Slowly,  she  rose  from  her  knees  to  sit  beside  him 
on  the  bed.  "You  heard?" 

He  nodded  his  head,  not  trusting  himself  to  speak. 

"I  was  afraid  the  Sheriff  talked  too  loud,"  she  said, 

"But,  why  did  you  do  it  ?"  he  persisted. 

"I  think  it  was  because  I  couldn't  do  anything 
else,"  she  answered,  with  her  little  chuckling  laugh. 
Then  she  added,  seriously :  "How  could  I  let  them 

97 


THE  KE-CKEATTON  OF  BKIAJST  KENT 

take  you  away?  Are  you  not  mine?  Did  not  the 
river  bring  you  to  ine  ?" 

"I  must  tell  you,"  he  answered,  sadly,  "that  what 
the  detective  told  you  about  me  is  true." 

"Yes  ?"  she  answered,  smiling. 

"I  was  a  clerk  in  the  Empire  Consolidated  Savings 
Bank,"  he  continued,  "and  1  stole  money, — for  nearly 
a  year  I  stole, — not  large  sums,  but  a  little  at  a  time. 
Then,  when  I  knew  that  it  was  going  to  be  discovered, 
I  took  quite  a  lot,  and  ran  away." 

"Yes?"  said  Auntie  Sue. 

"Do  you  not  care  that  I  am  a  thief?"  he  ques 
tioned,  wonderingly. 

"Oh,  yes ;  I  care  very  much,"  she  returned.  "But, 
you  see,  after  all,  your  stealing  is  a  little  thing  that 
can  be  made  all  right.  Your  being  a  thief  is  so  small 
in  comparison  with  other  things  which  you  might 
have  been,  but  which  you  are  not,  and  of  so  little 
importance  in  comparison  with  what  you  really  are, 
that  I  can't  feel  so  very  bad  about  it." 

"But — but — my  drinking, — my  condition  when — " 
He  could  not  go  on. 

"Why,  you  see,"  she  answered,  "I  can't  think  of 
that  man  as  being  you  at  all.  That  was  something 

98 


THE  RE-CKEATKOT  OF  BEIA^T  KEXT 

that  the  accident  of  your  being  a  thief  did  to  you, — 
like  catching  cold,  and  being  sick,  after  accidentally 
falling  in  the  river." 

After  a  little  silence,  the  man  spoke,  slowly:  "I 
suppose  every  thief,  when  he  is  caught,  says  the  same 
thing;  but  I  really  never  wanted  to  do  it.  Circum 
stances — "  he  paused,  biting  his  lip,  and  turning 
away. 

"What  was  she  like  ?"  asked  Auntie  Sue,  gently. 

"She  ?"  and  his  face  reddened. 

"Yes,  I  have  observed  that,  to  a  man,  'circum 
stances'  nearly  always  mean  a  woman.  To  a  woman, 
of  course,  it  is  a  man." 

"I  cannot  tell  you  about  her,  now,"  he  said. 
"Some  day,  perhaps,  when  I  am  further  away  from 
it.  But  she  is  not  at  all  like  you." 

And  this  answer,  for  some  strange  reason,  brought 
a  flush  of  pleasure  to  the  face  of  the  old  school 
teacher. 

"I  did  not  mean  for  you  to  tell  me  now,"  she 
returned.  "I  only  wanted  you  to  know  that,  even 
though  I  am  an  old  maid,  I  can  understand." 

She  left  him  then,  and  went  to  attend  to  her  simple 
household  duties. 

99 


THE  KE-CKEATION  OF  BKIAN  KENT 

It  was  not  until  quite  late  in  the  evening  that 
Auntie  Sue  took  up  the  newspaper  which  Sheriff 
Knox  had  given  her.  Judy  had  retired  to  her  room, 
and  Brian  Burns — as  they  had  agreed  he  should  be 
called — was  fast  asleep. 

To-morrow,  Brian  was  going  to  sit  up.  His  cloth 
ing  had  been  washed  and  ironed  and  pressed,  and 
Auntie  Sue  was  making  some  little  repairs  in  the 
way  of  darning  and  buttons.  She  had  finished,  and 
was  putting  her  needle  and  scissors  in  the  sewing- 
basket  on  the  table  beside  her,  when  she  noticed  the 
paper,  which  she  had  forgotten. 

The  article  headed  "BANK  CLEKK  DISAP- 
PEAKS"  was  not  long.  It  told,  in  a  matter-of-fact, 
newspaper  way,  how  Brian  Kent  had,  at  different 
times,  covering  a  period  of  several  months,  taken 
various  sums  from  the  Empire  Consolidated  Savings 
Bank,  and  gave,  so  far  as  was  then  known,  the 
accumulated  amount  which  he  had  taken.  The  dis 
honest  clerk  had  employed  several  methods  in  his 
operations ;  but  the  particular  incident — read  Auntie 
Sue — which  had  led  to  the  exposure  of  Kent's  steal 
ings  was  the  theft  of  a  small  sum  of  money  in  bank- 


100 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRJA&  KENT 


notes,  which  had  been  sent  to  the  bank  in  a  letter  by 
one  of  the  bank's  smaller  depositors. 

The  newspaper  fell  from  Auntie  Sue's  hand.  Me 
chanically,  she  fingered  the  garment  lying  in  her  lap. 

She,  too,  had  sent  a  sum  of  money  in  a  letter  for 
deposit  to  her  small  account  in  this  bank  from  which 
Brian  Kent  had  stolen.  She  would  not  have  sent  the 
familiar  paper  currency  of  the  United  States  that 
way;  but  this  money  was  in  Argentine  notes.  Her 
brother  from  far-away  Buenos  Aires  had  sent  it  to 
her,  saying  that  it  would  help  to  keep  her  during  the 
closing  years  of  her  life ;  and  she  had  added  it  to  her 
small  savings  with  a  feeling  of  deepest  gratitude  that 
her  last  days  were  now  fully  provided  for.  And  she 
had  received  from  the  bank  no  acknowledgment  of 
her  letter  with  its  enclosures. 

Taking  up  the  paper  with  hands  that  trembled  so 
she  scarce  could  distinguish  the  words,  she  read  the 
paragraph  again. 

Suddenly,  she  recalled  the  man's  puzzled  expres 
sion  when  she  had  told  him  her  name,  and  she  seemed 
to  hear  him  say,  again,  "Wakefield?  Wakefield? 
Where  have  I  seen  that  name  ?" 


101 


THE  HE-GKEATION  OF  BREAST  KENT 

She  looked  at  tire  date  of  the  paper.  Beyond  all 
doubt,  the  man  sleeping  there  in  the  other  room; — 
the  man  whom  she  had  saved  from  a  suicide's  end  in 
the  river ; — whom  she  had  nursed  through  the  hell  of 
delirium  tremens; — whom  she  had  yearned  over  as 
over  her  own  son,  and  for  whom,  to  save  from  the 
just  penalty  of  his  crime,  she  had  lied — beyond  all 
doubt  that  man  had  robbed  her  of  the  money  that  was 
to  have  insured  to  her  peace  and  comfort  in  the  clos 
ing  years  of  her  life. 

Carefully,  Auntie  Sue  laid  the  garment  she  had 
just  mended  with  such  loving  care,  with  the  rest  of 
Brian  Kent's  clothing,  on  the  near-by  chair.  Rising, 
she  went  with  slow,  troubled  step  to  the  porch. 

There  was  no  moon,  that  night,  to  turn  the  waters 
of  The  Bend  into  a  stream  of  silvery  light.  But  the 
stars  were  shining  bright  and  clear,  and  she  could  see 
the  river  where  it  made  its  dark,  mysterious  way 
between  the  walls  of  shadowy  hills ;  and  borne  to  her 
ears  on  the  gentle  night  wind  came  the  deep,  thunder 
ing  roar  of  the  angry  waters  at  Elbow  Rock. 

For  a  long  time  she  stood  there  on  the  porch  look 
ing  into  the  night,  with  the  light  from  the  open 
door  of  her  little  house  behind  her ;  and  she  felt  very 

102 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

lonely,  very  tired,  and  very  old.  With  her  beautiful 
old  face  upturned  to  the  infinite  sky,  where  shining 
worlds  are  scattered  in  such  lavish  profusion,  she 
listened,  listened  to  the  river  that,  with  its  countless 
and  complex  currents,  swept  so  irresistibly  onward 
along  the  way  that  was  set  for  it  by  Him  who  swung 
those  star-worlds  in  the  limitless  space  of  that  mighty 
arch  above.  And  something  of  the  spirit  that  broods 
ever  over  the  river  must  have  entered  into  the  soul  of 
Auntie  Sue.  When  she  turned  back  into  the  house, 
there  was  a  smile  on  her  face,  though  her  eyes  were 
wet  with  tears. 

Going  to  the  chair  that  held  Brian  Kent's  clothing, 
she  took  the  garments  in  her  arms  and  pressed  them 
to  her  lips.  Then  she  carried  them  to  his  room. 

For  some  time  she  remained  in  that  darkened 
chamber  beside  the  sleeping  man. 

When  she  returned  to  the  living-room,  she  again 
took  up  the  newspaper.  Very  carefully,  that  her 
sleeping  companions  in  the  house  might  not  hear  her, 
she  went  to  the  kitchen,  the  paper  in  her  hand. 
Very  carefully,  that  no  sound  should  betray  her  act, 
she  burned  the  paper  in  the  kitchen  stove. 


103 


CHAPTER  IX. 

AUNTIE  SUE'S  PROPOSITION. 

URIJSTG    the    next    few    days,    Brian    Kent 
rapidly  regained  his  strength.    No  one  seeing 
^  the  tall,   self-possessed   gentleman  who   sat 

with  Auntie  Sue  on  the  porch  overlooking  the  river, 
or  strolled  about  the  place,  could  have  imagined  him 
the  wretchedly  repulsive  creature  that  Judy  had 
dragged  from  the  eddy  so  short  a  time  before.  And  no 
one, — excepting,  perhaps,  detective  Ross, — would 
have  identified  this  bearded  guest  of  Auntie  Sue's 
as  the  absconding  bank  clerk  for  whose  arrest  a  sub 
stantial  reward  was  offered. 

But  Mr.  Ross  had  departed  from  the  Ozarks,  to 
report  to  the  Empire  Consolidated  Savings  Bank  that, 
to  the  best  of  his  knowledge  and  belief,  Brian  Kent 
had  been  drowned.  Homer  T.  Ward,  himself,  wrote 
Auntie  Sue  about  the  case,  for  the  detective  had  told 
the  bank  president  about  his  visit  to  the  little  log 
house  by  the  river,  and  the  banker  knew  that  his 


104 


THE  KE-CKEATION  OF  BKIA1ST  KENT 

old  teacher  would  wish  to  hear  the  conclusion  of 
the  affair. 

The  facts  upon  which  the  detective  based  his  con 
clusion  that  Brian  Kent  was  dead,  were,  first  of  all, 
the  man's  general  character,  temperament,  habits,  and 
ambitions, — aside  from  his  thefts  from  the  bank, — 
prior  to  the  time  of  his  exposure  and  night,  and  his 
known  mental  and  physical  condition  at  the  time  he 
disappeared  from  the  hotel  in  the  little  river  town 
of  Borden. 

The  detective  reasoned  (and  there  are  thousands 
of  cases  that  could  be  cited  to  support  his  contention) 
that  by  such  a  man  as  Brian  Kent, — knowing,  as  he 
must  have  known,  the  comparative  certainty  of  his 
ultimate  arrest  and  conviction,  and  being  in  a  mental 
and  nervous  condition  bordering  on  insanity,  as  a 
result  of  his  constant  brooding  over  his  crime  and  the 
excessive  drinking  to  which  he  had  resorted  for  relief, 
— by  such  a  man,  death  would  almost  inevitably  be 
chosen  rather  than  a  life  of  humiliation  and  disgrace 
and  imprisonment. 

Acting  upon  the  supposition,  however,  that  the  man 
had  gone  down  the  river  in  that  missing  boat,  and 


105 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN"  KENT 

that  the  appearance  of  suicide  was  planned  by  the 
fugitive  to  trick  his  pursuers,  the  detectives  ascer 
tained  that  he  had  provided  no  supplies  for  a  trip 
down  the  river.     The  man  would  be  compelled  to 
seek  food.     The  mountain  country  through  which  he 
must  pass  was  sparsely  settled,  and  for  a  distance  that 
would  have  taken  a  boat  many  days  to  cover,  the 
officers  visited  every  house  and  cabin  and  camp  on 
either  side  of  the  river  without  finding  a  trace  of  the 
hunted  man.     The  river  had  been  watched  night  and 
day.     The  net  set  by  the  Burns  operatives  touched 
every  settlement  and  village  for  many  miles  around. 
And,  finally,  the  battered  and  broken  wreck  of  the 
lost  boat  had  been  found  some  two  miles  below  Elbow 
Rock. 

".   ....     .     And  so,  my  dear  Auntie  Sue,"  Banker 

Ward  wrote,  in  conclusion,  "you  may  rest  in  peace, 
secure  in  the  certainty  that  my  thieving  bank  clerk 
is  not  lurking  anywhere  in  your  beautiful  Ozarks  to 
pounce  down  upon  you  unawares  in  your  little  house 
beside  the  river.  The  man  is  safely  dead.  There  is 
no  doubt  about  it.  I  regret,  more  than  I  can  express, 
that  you  have  been  in  any  way  disturbed  by  the 
affair.  Please  think  no  more  about  it. 

106 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

"By  che  way,  you  made  a  great  impression  upon 
detective  Ross.  He  was  more  than  enthusiastic  over 
your  graciousness  and  your  beauty.  I  never  heard 
him  talk  so  much  before  in  all  the  years  I  have 
known  him.  Needless  to  say,  I  indorsed  everything 
he  said  about  the  dearest  old  lady  in  the  world,  and 
then  we  celebrated  by  dining  together  and  drinking 
a  toast  to  Auntie  Sue.  .  .  ." 

Auntie  Sue  went  with  the  letter  to  Brian,  and 
acquainted  him  with  that  part  of  the  banker's 
communication  which  related  to  the  absconding  clerk ; 
but,  about  her  relation  to  the  president  of  the  Empire 
Consolidated  Savings  Bank,  she  said  nothing. 

"Isn't  it  splendid !"  she  finished,  her  face  glowing 
with  delight. 

"Splendid  ?"  he  echoed,  looking  at  her  with  grave, 
questioning  eyes. 

"'Why,  yes,  of  course !"  she  returned.  "Aren't  you 
glad  to  be  so  dead,  under  the  circumstances  ?  Think 
what  it  means !  You  are  free,  now.  No  horrid  old 
detectives  dogging  your  steps,  or  waiting  behind  every 
bush  and  tree  to  pounce  upon  you.  There  is  nothing, 
now,  to  prevent  your  being  the  kind  of  man  that  you 
always  meant  to  be, — and  really  are,  too, — except  for 

107 


THE  BE-CKEATION  OF  BKIAN  KENT 

your — your  accidental  tumble  in  the  river,"  she  fin 
ished  with  her  low  chuckling  laugh.  "And,  some 
day,"  she  went  on,  with  conviction,  "when  you  have 
established  yourself, — when  you  have  asserted  your 
real  self,  I  mean, — and  have  paid  back  every  penny 
of  the  money,  Homer  T.  Ward  and  Mr.  Eoss  and 
everybody  will  be  glad  that  they  didn't  catch  you 
before  you  had  a  chance  to  save  yourself." 

"And  you,  Auntie  Sue  ?"  Brian's  voice  was  deep 
with  feeling :  "And  you  ?" 

"Me?  Oh,  I  am  as  glad,  now,  as  I  can  ever  be, 
because,  you  see,  to  me  it  is  already  done." 

For  a  long  minute  he  looked  at  her  without  speak 
ing,  then  turned  his  face  away  to  gaze  out  over  the 
river  and  the  hills ;  but  his  eyes  were  the  eyes  of  one 
who  looks  without  seeing. 

Slowly,  he  said :  "I  wish  I  could  be  sure.  There 
was  a  time  when  I  was — when  I  believed  in  myself. 
It  seems  to  me,  now,  that  it  was  years  and  years  ago. 
I  thought,  then,  that  nothing  could  shake  me  in  my 
purpose;  that  nothing  could  check  me  in  my  ambi 
tion.  I  saw  myself  going  straight  on  to  the  goal  I 
had  set  for  myself  as  certainly  as — well,  as  your  river 


108 


THE  HE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN"  KENT 

over  there  goes  on  to  the  sea.  But  now — "  He 
shook  his  head  sadly. 

Auntie  Sue  laughed.  "You  foolish  boy.  My  river 
out  there  doesn't  go  straight  at  all.  It  meets  all 
sorts  of  obstacles,  and  is  beset  by  all  sorts  of  con 
flicting  influences,  and  so  is  forced  to  wind  and  twist 
and  work  its  way  along;  but,  the  big,  splendid  thing 
abcut  the  river  is  that  it  keeps  going  on.  It  never 
stops  to  turn  back.  No  matter  what  happens  to  it, 
it  never  stops.  It  goes  on  and  on  and  on  unto  the 
very  end,  until  it  finally  loses  itself  in  the  triumph 
of  its  own  achievement, — the  sea." 

"And  yo-u  think  that  I  can  go  on?"  he  asked, 
doubtingly. 

"I  know  you  can  go  on,"  she  answered  with 
conviction. 

"But,  why  are  you  so  sure?" 

"Perhaps,"  she  returned,  smiling,  "seventy  years 
makes  one  sure  of  some  things." 

He  exclaimed  passionately:  "But  you  do  not 
know — you  cannot  know — how  my  life,  my  dreams, 
my  plans,  my  hopes,  my — everything — has  been 
broken  into  bits!" 


109 


THE  EE-CEEATION"  OF  BEIAST  KENT 

She  answered  calmly,  pointing  to  Elbow  Eock: 
"Look  there,  Brian.  See  how  the  river  is  broken 
into  bits.  See  how  its  smoothly  flowing,  onward 
sweep  is  suddenly  changed  to  wild,  chaotic  turmoil ; 
how  it  rages  and  fumes  and  frets  and  smashes  itself 
against  the  rocks.  But  it  goes  on  just  the  same. 
Life  cannot  be  always  calm  and  smoothly  flowing  like 
the  peaceful  Bend.  But  life  can  always  go  on.  Life 
must  always  go  on.  And  you  will  find,  my  dear 
boy,  that  a  little  way  below  Elbow  Eock  there  is 
another  quiet  stretch." 

When  he  spoke  again  there  was  a  note  of  almost 
reverence  in  his  voice. 

"Auntie  Sue,  was  there  ever  a  break  in  your  life? 
Were  your  dreams  and  plans  ever  smashed  into 
bits?" 

3?or  a  little,  she  did  not  answer;  then  she  said, 
bravely:  "Yes,  Brian;  several  times.  Once, — 
years  and  years  ago, — I  do  not  know  how  I  managed 
to  go  on.  I  felt,  then,  as  you  feel  now;  but,  some 
how,  I  managed,  and  so  found  the  calm  places.  The 
last  hard  spot  came  quite  recently."  She  paused, 
wondering  what  he  would  do  if  she  were  to  tell  him 
how  he  himself  had  made  the  hard  spot.  "But, 

110 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

now,"  she  continued,  "I  am  hoping  that  the  rest  of 
the  way  will  be  calm  and  untroubled." 

"I  wish  I  could  help  to  make  it  sol*  he  cried 
impulsively. 

"Why,  you  can/'  she  returned  quickly.  "Of 
course  you  can.  Perhaps  that  is  why  the  current 
landed  your  boat  at  my  garden,  instead  of  carrying 
you  on  down  the  rapids  to  Elbow  Rock.  Who  can  say  ?" 

A  new  light  kindled  in  the  man's  eyes  as  his  sensi 
tive  nature  took  fire  at  Auntie  Sue's  words.  "I 
could  do  anything  for  a  woman  like  you,  Auntie 
Sue,"  he  said  quietly,  but  with  a  conviction  that  left 
no  room  for  doubt.  "But  you  must  tell  me  what 
I  am  to  do." 

She  answered:  "You  are  simply  to  go  on  with 
your  life — just  as  if  no  Elbow  Rock  had  ever  dis 
turbed  jou ;  just  as  the  river  goes  on — to  the  end." 

She  left  him,  then,  to  think  out  his  problem  alone ; 
for  the  teacher  of  so  many  years'  experience  was  too 
wise  not  to  know  when  a  lesson  was  finished. 

But  when  the  end  of  the  day  was  come,  they  again 
sat  together  on  the  porch  and  watched  the  miracle 
of  the  sunset  hour.  And  no  word  was  spoken  by 
them,  now,  of  life  and  its  problems  and  its  meanings. 

Ill 


THE  KE-CKEATION  OF  BKIAN  KENT 

As  one  listens  to  the  song  of  a  bird  without  thought 
of  musical  notes  or  terms ;  as  one  senses  the  fragrance 
of  a  flower  without  thought  of  the  chemistry  of  per 
fume;  as  one  feels  the  presence  of  spring  in  the  air 
without  thought  of  the  day  of  the  week,  so  they  were 
conscious  of  the  beauty,  the  glory,  and  the  peace  of 
the  evening. 

Only  when  the  soft  darkness  of  the  night  lay  over 
the  land,  and  river  and  mountain  and  starry  sky  were 
veiled  in  dreamy  mystery,  did  Auntie  Sue  speak: 
"Oh,  it  is  so  good  to  have  some  one  to  share  it  with, 
— some  one  who  understands.  I  am  very  lonely, 
sometimes,  Brian.  I  wonder  if  you  know  ?" 

"Yes,  Auntie  Sue,  I  know,  for  I  have  been  lonely, 
too." 

And  so  the  old  gentlewoman,  whose  lifework  was 
so  nearly  finished,  and  the  man  in  the  flush  of  his 
manhood  years,  whose  life  had  been  so  nearly 
wrecked,  were  drawn  very  close  by  a  something  that 
came  to  them  out  of  the  beauty  and  the  mystery  of 
that  hour. 

The  next  day,  Brian  told  Auntie  Sue  that  he  would 
leave  on  the  morrow. 


112 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KEJSTT 

"Leave?"  she  echoed  in  dismay.  "Why,  Brian, 
where  are  you  going?" 

"I  don't  exactly  know/7  he  returned;  "but,  of 
course,  I  must  go  somewhere,  out  into  the  world 
again." 

"And  why  must  you  'go  somewhere,  out  into  the 
world  again'  ?"  she  demanded. 

"To  work,"  he  answered,  smiling.  "If  I  am  to 
go  on,  as  you  say,  I  must  go  where  I  can  find  some 
thing  to  do." 

"If  that  isn't  just  like  you — you  child!"  cried 
the  old  teacher.  "You  are  all  alike, — you  hoys  and 
girls.  You  all  must  have  something  to  do;  always, 
it  is  'something  to  do'." 

"Well,"  he  returned,  "and  must  we  not  have  some 
thing  to  do  ?" 

"You  will  do  something,  certainly,"  she  answered ; 
"but,  before  you  can  do  anything  that  is  worth  doing, 
you  must  be  something.  Life  isn't  doing; — it  is 
being." 

"I  wonder  if  that  was  not  the  real  reason  for  my 
wretched  failures,"  said  Brian,  thoughtfully. 

"It  is  the  real  reason  for  most  of  our  failures," 


113 


THE  KE-CKEATION  OF  BKIAN  KENT 

she  returned.  "And  so  you  are  not  going  to  fail 
again.  You  are  not  going  away  somewhere,  you 
don't  know  where,  to  do  something  you  don't  know 
what.  You  are  going  to  stay  right  here,  and  just  be 
something.  Then,  when  the  time  comes,  you  will  do 
whatever  is  yours  to  do  as  naturally  and  as  inevi 
tably  as  the  birds  sing,  as  the  blossoms  come  in  the 
spring,  or  as  the  river  finds  its  way  to  the  sea." 

And  more  than  ever  Brian  Kent  felt  in  the  pres 
ence  of  Auntie  Sue  as  a  little  boy  to  whom  the  world 
had  grown  suddenly  very  big  and  very  wonderful. 

But,  after  a  while,  he  shook  his  head,  smiling 
wistfully.  "No,  no,  Auntie  Sue,  that  sounds  all  true 
and  right  enough,  but  it  can't  be.  I  must  go  just 
the  same." 

"Why  can't  it  be,  Brian  ?" 

"For  one  thing,"  he  returned,  "I  cannot  risk  the 
danger  to  you.  After  all,  as  long  as  I  am  living, 
there  is  a  chance  that  my  identity  will  be  discovered, 
and  you — no,  no ;  I  must  not !" 

"As  for  that,"  she  answered  quickly,  "the  chances 
of  your  being  identified  are  a  thousand  times  greater 
if  you  go  into  the  world  again  too  soon.  Some  day, 
of  course,  you  must  go ;  but  you  are  safer  now  right 

114 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

here.  And" — she  added  quickly — "it  would  be  no 
easier  for  me,  dear  boy,  to — to — have  it  happen  some 
where  away  from  me.  You  are  mine,  you  know,  no 
matter  where  you  go." 

"But,  Auntie  Sue,"  he  protested,  "I  am  not  a 
gentleman  of  means  that  I  can  do  nothing  indefi 
nitely;  neither  am  I  capable  of  living  upon  your 
hospitality  for  an  extended  period.  I  must  earn 
my  bread  and  butter." 

The  final  sentence  came  with  such  a  lifting  of  his 
head,  such  a  look  of  stern  decision,  and  such  an  air  of 
pride,  that  the  gentle  old  school-teacher  laughed  until 
her  eyes  were  filled  with  tears ;  and  Judy,  at  the  crack 
in  the  kitchen  door,  wondered  if  the  mistress  of  the 
little  log  house  by  the  river  were  losing  her  mind. 

"Oh,  Brian!  Brian!"  cried  Auntie  Sue,  wiping 
her  eyes.  "I  knew  you  would  come  to  the  'bread  and 
butter'  at  last.  That  is  where  all  our  philosophies 
and  reasonings  and  arguments  come  at  last,  don't 
they?  Just  'bread  and  butter/  that  is  all.  And  I 
love  you  for  it.  Of  course  you  can't  live  upon  my 
hospitality, — and  I  couldn't  let  you  if  you  would. 
And  if  you  would,  I  wouldn't  let  you  if  I  could. 
I  am  no  more  a  lady  of  means,  my  haughty  sir,  than 

115 


THE  KE-CKEATION  OF  BBIAN  KENT 

you  are  a  gentleman  of  independent  fortune.  The 
fact  is,  Brian,  dear,  I  suspect  that  you  and  I  are 
about  the  two  poorest  people  in  the  world, — to  be 
anything  like  as  pretentiously  respectable  and  prop 
erly  proud  as  we  are." 

When  the  man  could  make  no  reply,  but  only 
looked  at  her  with  a  much-puzzled  and  still-proud 
expression,  she  continued,  half-laughingly,  but  well 
pleased  with  him:  "Please,  Brian,  don't  look  so 
haughtily  injured.  I  had  no  intention  of  insulting 
you  by  offering  charity.  Far  from  it." 

Instantly,  the  man's  face  changed.  He  put  out 
his  hands  protestingly,  and  his  blue  eyes  filled,  as  he 
said,  impulsively:  "Auntie  Sue,  after  what  you 
have  done  for  me,  I — " 

She  answered  quickly:  "We  are  considering  the 
future.  What  has  been,  is  past.  Our  river  is  al 
ready  far  beyond  that  point  in  its  journey.  Don't 
let  us  try  to  turn  the  waters  back.  I  promise  you 
I  am  going  to  be  very,  very  practical,  and  make  you 
pay  for  everything." 

Smiling,  now,  he  waited  for  her  to  explain. 

"I  must  tell  you,  first,"  she  began,  "that,  except 


116 


THE  EE-CREATION  OE  BRIAN  KEXT 

for  a  very  small  amount  in  the — in  a  savings  bank, 
I  have  nothing  to  provide  for  my  last  days  except 
this  little  farm." 

"What  a  shame/7  Brian  Kent  exclaimed,  "that  a 
woman  like  you  can  give  her  life  to  the  public  schools 
for  barely  enough  salary  to  keep  her  alive  during  her 
active  years,  and  then  left  in  her  old  age  with  no 
means  of  support.  It  is  a  national  disgrace.'' 

Auntie  Sue  chuckled  with  appreciation  of  the 
rather  grim  humor  of  the  situation.  What  would 
Brian  Kent,  indignant  at  the  public  neglect  of  the 
school-teacher,  say  of  the  man  who  had  robbed  her  of 
the  money  that  was  to  provide  for  her  closing  years  ? 
"After  all,  most  public  sins  are  only  individual  sins 
at  the  last,"  she  said,  musingly. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Brian,  not  in  the  least 
seeing  the  relevancy  of  her  words. 

Auntie  Sue  came  quickly  back  to  her  subject: 
"Only  thirty  acres  of  my  little  farm  is  under  culti 
vation.  The  remaining  fifty  acres  is  wild  timber- 
land.  If  I  could  have  that  fifty  acres  also  in  culti 
vation,  with  the  money  that  the  timber  would  bring, 
— which  would  not  be  a  great  deal, — I  would  be 


117 


THE  RE-CKEATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

fairly  safe  for  the — for  the  rest  of  my  evening."  she 
finished  with  a  smile.  "Do  you  cee?" 

"  You  mean  that  I — that  you  v/ant  me  to  stay  here 
and  work  for  you?" 

"I  mean,"  she  answered,  "that,  if  you  choose  to 
stay  for  awhile,  you  need  not  feel  that  you  would  he 
accepting  my  hospitality  as  charity,"  she  returned 
gently.  "I  am  not  exactly  offering  you  a  job:  I  am 
only  showing  you  how  you  could,  without  sacrificing 
your  pride,  remain  in  this  quiet  retreat  for  awhile 
before  returning  to  the  world." 

"It  would  be  heaven,  Auntie  Sue,"  he  returned 
earnestly.  "I  want  to  stay  so  bad  that  I  fear  my 
self.  Let  me  think  it  over  until  to-morrow.  Let 
me  be  sure  that  I  am  doing  the  right  thing,  and  not 
merely  the  thing  I  want  to  do." 

She  liked  his  answer,  and  did  not  mention  the 
subject  again  until  Brian  himself  was  ready.  And, 
strangely  enough,  it  was  poor,  twisted  Judy  who 
helped  him  to  set  matters  straight. 


118 


CHAPTER  X. 

BRIAN  KENT  DECIDES. 

|  HI  AN  had  walked  along  the  river-bank  below 
the  house  to  a  spot  just  above  the  point  where 
the  high  bluff  jutting  out  into  the  river-chan 
nel  forms  Elbow  Rock. 

The  bank  here  is  not  so  high  above  the  roaring 
waters  of  the  rapids,  for  the  spur  of  the  mountain 
which  forms  the  cliff  lies  at  a  right  angle  to  the 
river,  and  the  greater  part  of  the  cliff  is  thus  on 
the  shore,  with  its  height  growing  less  and  less  as  it 
merges  into  the  main  slope  of  the  mountain-side. 
From  the  turn  in  the  road,  in  front  of  the  house,  a 
footpath  leads  down  the  bank  of  the  river  to  the 
cliff,  and,  climbing  stairlike  up  the  face  of  the  steep 
bluff,  zigzags  down  the  easier  slope  of  the  down 
river  side,  to  come  again  into  the  road  below.  The 
road  itself,  below  Elbow  Rock,  is  forced  by  the  steep 
side  of  the  mountain-spur  and  the  precipitous  bluff 
to  turn  inland  from  the  river,  and  so,  climbing  by 
an  easier  grade  up  past  Tom  "Warden's  place,  crosses 

119 


THE  KE-CKEATKW  OF  BKIA1ST  KENT 

the  ridge  above  the  schoolhouse,  and  comes  back  down 
the  mountain  again  in  front  of  Auntie  Sue's  place, 
to  its  general  course  along  the  stream.  The  little 
path  forms  thus  a  convenient  short  cut  for  any  one 
following  the  river  road  on  foot. 

Brian,  seated  on  the  river-bank  a  little  way  from 
the  path  where  it  starts  up  the  bluff,  was  trying  to 
decide  whether  it  would  be  better  for  him  to  follow 
his  desire  and  stay  with  Auntie  Sue  for  a  few  weeks 
or  months,  or  whether  he  should  not,  in  spite  of  the 
land  he  might  clear  for  her,  return  to  the  world 
where  he  could  more  quickly  earn  the  money  to  pay 
back  that  which  he  had  stolen. 

And  as  he  sat  there,  the  man  was  conscious  that 
he  had  reached  one  of  those  turning-points  that  are 
found  in  every  life  where  results,  momentous  and 
far-reaching,  are  dependent  upon  comparatively  un 
important  and  temporary  issues.  He  could  not  have 
told  why,  and  yet  he  felt  a  certainty  that,  for  him, 
two  widely  separated  futures  were  dependent  upon 
his  choice.  NOT  could  he,  by  thinking,  discover 
what  those  futures  held  for  him,  nor  which  he  should 
choose.  Even  as  his  boat  that  night  had  hung  on 
the  edge  of  the  eddy, — hesitating  on  the  dividing- 

120 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

line  between  the  two  currents, — so  the  man  himself 
now  felt  the  pull  of  his  life-currents,  and  hesitated, — 
undecided; 

Looking  toward  the  house,  he  thought  how  like 
the  life  offered  by  Auntie  Sue  was  to  the  quiet  waters 
of  The  Bend,  and — his  mind  finished  the  simile — • 
how  like  the  life  to  which  he  would  go  was  to  the 
rapids  at  Elbow  Rock;  and,  yet,  he  reflected,  the* 
waters  could  never  reach  the  sea  without  enduring 
the  turmoil  of  the  rapids.  And,  again,  the  thought 
came,  "The  Bend  is  just  as  much  the  river  as  the 
troubled  passage  around  the  rock." 

When  he  had  given  up  life,  and,  to  all  intent  and 
purpose,  had  left  life  behind  him,  the  river,  without 
his  will  or  knowledge,  had  mysteriously  elected  to 
save  him  from  the  death  he  had  chosen  as  his  only 
refuge  from  the  utter  ruin  that  had  seemed  so  in 
evitable.  As  the  currents  of  the  river  had  carried 
his  boat  to  the  eddy  at  the  foot  of  Auntie  Sue's  gar 
den,  the  currents  of  life  had  mysteriously  brought 
him  to  the  saving  influence  of  Auntie  Sue  herself. 
Should  he  push  out  again  into  the  stream  to  face 
the  danger  he  knew  beset  such  a  course?  or  should 
he  wait  for  a  season  in  the  secure  calm  of  the  harbor 

121 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

she  offered  until  he  were  stronger?  Brian  Kent 
knew,  instinctively,  that  there  was  in  the  wisdom  and 
love  of  Auntie  Sue's  philosophy  and  faith  a  strength 
that  would,  if  he  could  make  it  his,  insure  his  safe 
passage  through  every  danger  of  life,  and  yet — 

The  man's  meditations  were  interrupted  by  a 
chance  look  toward  the  bluff  which  towered  above 
him. 

Judy  was  climbing  the  steep  trail. 

Curiously,  Brian  watched  the  deformed  mountain 
girl  as  she  made  her  way  up  the  narrow,  stairlike 
path,  and  her  cutting  words  came  back  to  him :  "God- 
A'mighty  and  my  drunken  pap  made  me  like  I  am. 
But  you, — damn  you ! — you  made  yourself  what  you 
be."  And  Auntie  Sue  had  said  that  the  all-impor 
tant  thing  in  life  was  not  to  do  something,  but  to  be 
something. 

The  girl,  who  had  gained  a  point  halfway  to  the 
top  of  the  bluff,  paused  to  look  searchingly  about, 
and  Brian,  who  was  half-hidden  by  the  bushes, 
started  to  call  to  her,  thinking  she  might  be  looking 
for  him;  but  some  impulse  checked  him  and  he  re 
mained  silently  watching  her.  Climbing  hurriedly 
a  little  higher  up  the  path  Judy  again  stopped  to 

122 


THE  HE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

look  carefully  around,  as  if  searching  the  vicinity 
for  some  one.  Then,  once  more,  she  went  on  until 
she  stood  on  top  of  the  cliff;  and  now,  as  she  looked 
about  over  the  surrounding  country,  she  called :  "Mr. 
Bums !  Oh,  Mr.  Burns !  Who-o-e-e !  Mr.  Burns !" 

Brian's  lips  were  parted  to  answer  the  call  when 
something  happened  on  top  of  the  bluff  which  held 
him  for  the  moment  speechless. 

From  beyond  where  Judy  stood  on  the  brink  of 
the  cliff,  a  man's  head  and  shoulders  appeared.  Brian 
saw  the  girl  start  and  turn  to  face  the  newcomer 
as  if  in  sudden  fear.  Then  she  whirled  about  to 
run.  Before  she  could  gain  the  point  where  the 
path  starts  down  from  the  top,  the  man  caught  her 
and  dragged  her  roughly  back,  so  that  the  two  dis 
appeared  from  Brian's  sight.  Brian  was  halfway 
up  the  bluff  when  he  heard  the  girl's  shrill  scream. 

There  was  no  sign  of  weakness,  now,  in  the  man 
that  Judy  had  dragged  from  the  river.  He  covered 
the  remaining  distance  to  the  top  in  a  breath.  From 
among  the  bushes,  a  little  way  down  the  mountain 
side,  came  the  sound  of  an  angry  voice  mingled  with 
Judy's  pleading  cries. 

An  instant  more,  and  Brian  reached  the  spot  where 

123 


THE  KE-CKEATION  OF  BKIAET  KENT 

poor  Judy  was  crouching  on  the  ground,  begging  the 
brute,  who  stood  over  her  with  menacing  fists,  not 
to  hit  her  again. 

The  man  was  a  vicious-looking  creature,  dressed 
in  the  rough  garb  of  the  mountaineer;  dirty  and 
unkempt,  with  evil,  close-set  eyes,  and  a  scraggly 
beard  that  could  not  hide  the  wicked,  snarling  mouth. 

He  stood  for  a  second  looking  at  Brian,  as  if  too 
surprised  by  the  latter's  sudden  appearance  to  move ; 
then  he  went  down,  felled  by  as  clean  a  knockout  as 
was  ever  delivered  by  an  Irish  fist. 

"Are  you  hurt,  Judy?"  demanded  Brian,  as  ho 
lifted  the  girl  to  her  feet.  "Did  he  strike  you  ?" 

"He  was  sure  a-fixin'  ter  lick  me  somethin'  awful 
when  yon-all  put  in,"  returned  the  poor  girl,  trem 
bling  with  fear.  "I  know,  'cause  he's  done  hit  to  me 
heaps  er  times  before.  He's  my  pap." 

"Your  father!"  exclaimed  Brian. 

Judy  nodded ; — then  screamed :  "Look  out !  He'U 
git  you,  sure!" 

Judy's  rescuer  whirled,  to  see  the  man  on  the 
ground  drawing  a  gun.  A  vigorous,  well-directed 
kick,  delivered  in  the  nick  of  time,  sent  the  gur 


124 


THE  RE-CREATION"  OF  BRIAX  KENT 

whirling  away  into  the  bushes  and  rendered  the  na 
tive's  right  arm  useless. 

"Get  up !"  commanded  Brian. 

The  man  rose  to  his  feet,  and  stood  nursing  his 
damaged  wrist  and  scowling  at  Judy's  companion. 

"Are  you  this  girl's  father  ?" 

"I  reckon  I  am/'  came  the  sullen  reply.  "I'm  Jap 
Taylor,  an1  you-all  are  sure  goin'  to  find  that  you 
can't  come  between  a  man  an'  his  lawful  child  in 
these  here  mountains,  mister. — if  you-all  be  from 
the  city." 

"And  you  will  find  that  you  can't  strike  a  crip 
pled  girl  in  my  presence,  oven  if  she  is  your  daugh 
ter, — in  these  mountains  or  anywhere  else,"  retorted 
Brian.  "What  are  you  trying  to  do  with  her,  any- 
way?" 

"I  aim  ter  take  her  back  home  with  me,  where 
she  belongs." 

"Well,  why  didn't  you  go  to  the  house  for  her 
like  a  man,  instead  of  jumping  on  her  out  here  in 
the  woods!" 

"Hit  ain't  none  of  your  dad  burned  business  as 
I  can  see,"  came  the  sullen  reply. 


125 


THE  EE-CKEATION  OF  BKIAN  KENT 

"I  am  making  it  my  business,  just  the  same/' 
returned  Brian. 

He  turned  to  the  girl,  who  had  drawn  back  a  lit 
tle  behind  him.  "Judy,"  he  said,  kindly,  "I  think 
perhaps  you  better  tell  me  about  this." 

"Pap,  he  was  a-layin'  for  me  in  the  bresh  'cause 
he  dassn't  come  to  the  house  ter  git  me,"  said  the 
girl,  fearfully. 

"But,  why  does  he  fear  to  come  to  the  house?" 
persisted  Brian. 

"  'Cause  he  done  give  me  ter  Auntie  Sue." 

"Gave  you  to  Auntie  Sue?"  repeated  the  puzzled 
Brian. 

Jap  Taylor  interrupted  with,  "I  didn't  sign  ary 
paper,  an' — " 

"Shut  up,  you !"  snapped  Brian.     "Go  on,  Judy." 

"Hit  was  a  year  last  corn-plantin',"  explained  the 
girl.  "My  maw,  she  died.  He  used  ter  whip  her, 
too.  An'  Auntie  Sue  was  there  helpin'  weuns;  an' 
Tom  Warden  an'  some  other  folks  they  was  there, 
too ;  an'  they  done  fixed  hit  so  that  I  was  ter  go  an' 
live  with  Auntie  Sue;  an'  pap,  he  give  me  ter  her. 
He  sure  did,  Mr.  Burns,  an'  I  ain't  a-wantin'  ter 
go  with  him,  no  more." 

126 


THE  RE-CREATIOX  OF  BRIAST  KENT 

The  poor  girl's  shrill  monotone  broke,  and  her 
twisted  body  shook  with  her  sobs. 

"I  didn't  sign  ary  paper,"  repeated  Judy's  father, 
with  sullen  stubbornness.  "An*  what's  more,  I  sure 
ain't  a-goin'  ter.  I  'lows  as  how  she'll  just  go  home 
an'  work  for  me,  like  she  ort,  'stead  of  livin'  with 
that  there  old-maid  schoolma'am.  I'm  her  paw,  I 
am,  an'  I  reckon  I  got  rights." 

He  started  toward  the  girl,  who  drew  closer  to 
Brian,  and  begged  piteously:  "Don't  let  him  tech 
me!  'Fore  God,  Mr.  Burns,  he'll  kill  me,  sure!" 

Brian  drew  the  girl  behind  him  as  he  faced  the 
father  with  a  brief,  "Get  out!" 

The  mountaineer  hesitated. 

Brian  went  one  step  toward  him :  "Do  you  hear  ? 
Get  out!  And  if  you  ever  show  your  dirty  face  in 
this  vicinity  again,  I'll  not  leave  a  whole  bone  in 
your  worthless  carcass!" 

And  Jap  Taylor  saw  something  in  those  Irish  blue 
eyes  that  caused  him  to  start  off  down  the  mountain 
toward  the  river  below  Elbow  Rock. 

When  he  had  placed  a  safe  distance  between  him 
self  and  the  man  who  appeared  so  willing  and  able 
to  make  good  his  threat,  Judy's  father  turned,  and, 

127 


THE  KE-CKEATION  OE  BRIAN  KENT 

shaking  his  uninjured  fist  at  Brian,  delivered  a  vol 
ley  of  curses,  with:  "I'll  sure  git  you-all  for  this! 
Jap  Taylor  ain't  a-lettin'  no  man  come  between  him 
an'  his'n.  I'll  fix  you,  an'  I'll  fix  that  there  school- 
ma'am,  too !  She's  nothin'  but  a  damned  old — " 

But  Brian  started  toward  him,  and  Jap  Taylor 
beat  a  hasty  retreat. 

"Never  mind,  Judy,"  said  Brian,  when  the  na 
tive  had  disappeared  in  the  brush  and  timber  that 
covered  the  steep  mountain-side.  "I'll  not  let  him 
touch  you.  Come,  let  us  sit  down  and  talk  a  little 
until  you  are  yourself  again.  Auntie  Sue  must  not 
see  you  like  this.  We  don't  want  to  let  her  know 
anything  about  it.  You  won't  tell  her,  will  you  ?" 

"I  ain't  aimin'  ter  tell  nobody,"  said  Judy,  be 
tween  sobs.  "I  sure  ain't  a-wantin'  ter  make  no 
trouble, — not  for  Auntie  Sue,  nohow.  She's  been 
powerful  good  ter  me." 

When  they  were  seated  on  convenient  rocks  at  the 
brink  of  the  cliff  overlooking  the  river,  Judy  grad 
ually  ceased  crying,  and  presently  said,  in  her  nor 
mal,  querulous  monotone:  "Did  you-all  mind  what 
pap  'lowed  he'd  do  ter  Auntie  Sue,  Mr.  Burns  ?" 


128 


THE  RE-CKEATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

"Yes,  Judy;  but  don't  worry,  child.  He  is  not 
going  to  harm  any  one  while  I  am  around." 

"You-all  are  aimin'  ter  stay  then,  be  you?  I'm 
sure  powerful  glad,"  said  Judy,  simply. 

Brian  started.  A  new  factor  had  suddenly  been 
injected  into  his  problem. 

"I  was  powerful  scared  you-all  was  aimin'  ter  go 
away,"  continued  Judy.  "Hit  was  that  I  was  a- 
huntin'  you-all  to  tell  you  'bout,  when  pap  he  ketched 


me." 


"What  were  you  going  to  tell  me,  Judy  ?" 

"I  'lowed  ter  tell  you-all  'bout  Auntie  Sue.  She'd 
sure  be  powerful  mad  if  she  know'd  I'd  said  any- 
thin'  ter  you,  but  she's  a-neediii'  somebody  like  you 
ter  help  her,  mighty  bad.  She — she's  done  lost  a 
heap  of  money,  lately :  hit  was  some  she  sent — " 

Brian  interrupted:  "Wait  a  minute,  Judy.  You 
must  not  tell  me  anything  about  Auntie  Sue's  private 
affairs;  you  must  not  tell  any  one.  Anything  she 
wants  me  to  know,  she  will  tell  me.  Do  you  under 
stand?"  he  finished  with  a  reassuring  smile. 

"Yes,  sir;  I  reckon  you-all  are  'bout  right,  an' 
I  won't  tell  nobody  nothin'.  But  'tain't  a-goin'  ter 


129 


THE  KE-CKEATIOff  OF  BKIAN  KENT 


hurt  none  ter  say  as  how  yon-all  ort  ter  stay,  T 


reckon." 


"And  why  do  you  think  I  ought  to  stay,  Judy?" 

"  '  Cause  of  what  Auntie  Sue's  done  for  you-all, — 
a-nursin'  you  when  you  was  plumb  crazy  an'  plumb 
dangerous  from  licker,  an'  a-lyin'  like  she  did  ter 
the  Sheriff  an'  that  there  deteckertive  man,"  re 
turned  Judy  stoutly;  "an'  'cause  she's  so  old  an'  is 
a-needin'  you-all  ter  help  her;  an'  'cause  she  is  a- 
lovin'  you  like  she  does,  an'  is  a-wantin'  you-all  ter 
stay  so  bad  hit's  mighty  nigh  a-makin'  her  plumb 
sick." 

Brian  Kent  did  not  answer.  The  mountain  girl's 
words  had  revealed  to  him  the  selfishness  of  his  own 
consideration  of  his  problem  so  clearly  that  he  was 
stunned.  Why  had  he  not,  in  his  thinking,  remem 
bered  the  dear  old  gentlewoman  who  had  saved  him 
from  a  shameful  death? 

Judy  went  on:  "Hit  looks  ter  me  like  somebody 
just  natur ally's  got  ter  take  care  of  Auntie  Sue,  Mr. 
Burns.  All  her  whole  life  she's  a-been  takin'  care 
of  everybody  just  like  she  tuck  me,  an'  just  like  she 
tuck  you-all,  besides  a  heap  of  other  ways;  an'  now 
she's  so  old  and  mighty  nigh  plumb  wore  out,  hit 

130 


THE  RE-CREATION  OE  BRIAN  KENT 

*ure  looks  like  hit  was  time  somebody  was  a-nxin' 
ter  do  somethin'  for  her.  That  was  what  I  was  a- 
huntin'  you-all  ter  tell  you  when  pap  ketehed  me, 
Mr.  Burns." 

"I  ain  glad  you  told  me,  Judy; — very  glad.  You 
see,  I  was  not  thinking  of  things  in  just  that  way." 

"I  'lowed  maybe  you  mightn't.  Seems  like  folks 
mostly  don't." 

"But  it's  all  right,  now!"  Brian  cried  heartily. 
"You  have  settled  it.  I'll  stay.  We'll  take  care  of 
Auntie  Sue, — you  and  I,  Judy.  Come  on,  now; 
let's  go  to  the  house,  and  tell  her.  But  we  won't  say 
anything  about  your  father,  Judy ; — that  would  only 
make  her  unhappy ;  and  we  must  never  make  Auntie 
Sue  unhappy — never."  He  was  as  eager  and  en 
thusiastic,  now,  as  a  schoolboy. 

"  'Course,"  said  Judy,  solemnly;  "  'course  you  just 
naturally  got  ter  stay  an'  take  care  of  her  now,  after 
what  pap's  done  said  he'd  do." 

"Yes,  Judy;  I've  just  naturally  got  to  stay,"  re 
turned  Brian. 

Together  they  went  down  the  steep  cliff  trail  and 
to  the  little  log  house  by  the  river  to  announce  Brian's 
decision  to  Auntie  Sue.  They  found  the  dear  eld 

131 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

lady  in  her  favorite  spot  on  the  porch  overlooking 
the  river. 

"Why,  of  course  yon  will  stay,"  she  returned,  when 
Brian  had  told  her.  "The  river  brought  you  to  ine, 
and  you  know,  my  dear  boy,  the  river  is  never  wrong. 
Oh,  yes,  I  know  there  are  cross-currents  and  crooked 
spots  and  sand-bars  and  rocks  and  lots  of  places 
where  it  seems  to  us  to  be  wrong.  But,  just  the 
same,  it  all  goes  on,  all  the  time,  toward  the  sea  for 
which  it  starts  when  it  first  begins  at  some  little 
spring  away  over  there  somewhere  in  the  mountains. 
Of  course  you  will  stay  with  me,  Brian, — until  the 
river  carries  you  on  again." 


132 


CHAPTER  XL 

EE-CREATION. 

[R03I  the  very  day  of  his  decision,  to  which 
he  had  been  so  unexpectedly  helped  by  Judy, 
Brian  Kent  was  another  man.  The  gloomy, 
despondent,  undecided  spirit  that  was  the  successor 
of  the  wretched  creature  that  Judy  had  helped  to 
Auntie  Sue's  that  morning  was  now  succeeded  by  a 
cheerful,  hopeful,  contented  man,  who  went  to  his 
daily  task  with  a  song,  did  his  work  with  a  smile 
and  a  merry  jest,  and  returned,  when  the  day  was 
done,  with  peace  in  his  heart  and  laughter  on  his 
lips. 

As  the  days  of  the  glorious  Ozark  autumn  passed, 
Brian's  healthful,  outdoor  work  on  the  timbered 
mountain-side  brought  to  the  man  of  the  cities  a 
physical  grace  and  beauty  he  had  lacked, — the  grace 
of  physical  strength  and  the  beauty  of  clean  and 
rugged  health.  The  bright  autumn  sun  and  the 
winds  that  swept  over  the  many  miles  of  tree-clad 
hills  browned  his  skin;  while  his  work  with  the  ax 

133 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

developed  his  muscles  and  enforced  deep  breathing 
of  the  bracing  mountain  air,  thus  bringing  a  mere 
generous  supply  of  richer  blood,  which  touched  his 
now  firmly  rounded  cheeks  with  color. 

The  gift  of  humor  and  the  faculty  of  quaint  and 
witty  conversational  twists,  with  the  genius  of  story 
telling  that  was  his  from  his  Irish  mother,  made 
quick  friends  for  him  of  the  mountain  neighbors  who 
welcomed  this  new  pupil  of  their  old  school-teacher 
with  whole-hearted  pleasure,  and  quoted  his  jests  and 
sayings  throughout  the  country  with  never-failing  de 
light.  And  Judy, — it  is  not  too  much  to  say  that 
Judy  became  his  most  ardent  admirer  and  devoted 
slava 

But  the  dear  old  mistress  of  the  little  log  house 
by  the  river  alone  recognized  that  these  outward 
changes  in  the  human  wreck  that  the  river  h^d 
brought  to  her  were  but  manifestations  of  a  more 
potent  transformation  that  was  taking  place  in  the 
man's  inner  life;  and  it  was  this  inner  change  that 
filled  the  teacher's  loving  heart  with  joy,  and  which 
she  watched  with  keen  and  delighted  interest. 

It  was  not,  after  all,  a  new  life  that  was  coming 


134 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

to  this  man,  Auntie  Sue  told  herself ;  it  was  his  own 
old  and  more  real  life  that  was  reassuring  itself.  It 
was  the  real  Brian  Kent  that  had  been  sojourning 
in  a  far  country  that  was  now  coming  home  to  his 
own.  It  was  the  wealth  of  his  heart  and  mind  and 
soul  which  had  been  deep-buried  under  an  accumula 
tion  of  circumstances  and  environment  that  was  now 
being  brought  to  the  surface. 

Might  it  not  be  that  Auntie  Sue's  genius  for  ab 
sorbing  beauty  and  making  truth  her  own  had,  in 
her  many  years  of  searching  for  truth  and  beauty 
in  whatever  humanity  she  encountered,  developed  in 
her  a  peculiar  sensitiveness  ?  And  was  it  not  this 
that  had  made  her  feel  instinctively  the  real  nature 
of  the  man  in  whom  a  less  discerning  observer  would 
have  recognized  nothing  worthy  of  admiration  or 
regard?  "Without  question,  it  was  the  true, — the 
essential, — the  underlying, — elements  in  the  charac 
ter  of  the  absconding  bank  clerk  that  had  aroused 
in  this  remarkable  old  gentlewoman  the  peculiar 
sense  of  kinship — of  possession — that  had  deter 
mined  her  attitude  toward  the  stranger.  The  law 
that  like  calls  to  like  is  not  less  applicable  to  things 


135 


THE  RE-CKEATION  OF  BEIAIT  KENT 

spiritual  than  to  things  material.  The  birds  of  a 
feather  that  always  flock  together  are  not  of  neces 
sity  material  birds  of  material  feathers. 

jSTor  was  Brian  Kent  himself  unconscious  of  his 
Re-Creation.  The  man  knew  what  he  was,  as  every 
man  knows  deep  within  himself  the  real  self  that 
is.  And  that  was  the  horror  of  the  situation  which 
had  set  him  adrift  on  the  river  that  night  when,  in 
his  last  drunken  despairing  frenzy,  he  had  left  the 
world  with  a  curse  in  his  heart  and  had  faced  the 
black  unknown  with  reckless  laughter  and  a  profane 
toast.  It  is  to  be  doubted  if  there  can  be  a  hell  of 
greater  torment  than  that  experienced  by  one  who, 
endowed  by  nature  with  a  capacity  for  great  living,  is 
betrayed  by  the  very  strength  of  his  genius  into  a 
situation  that  is  intolerable  of  his  real  self,  and  is 
forced,  thus,  to  a  continuous  self-crucifixion  and 
death. 

In  his  new  environment  the  man  felt  the  awak 
ening  of  this  self  which  he  had  mourned  as  dead. 
Thoughts,  emotions,  dreams,  aspirations,  which  had, 
as  he  believed,  been  killed,  he  found  were  not  dead, 
but  only  sleeping;  and  in  the  quickening  of  their 


136 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

vitality  and  strength  he  knew  a  joy  as  great  as  had 
been  his  despair. 

The  heauty  of  nature,  that  had  lost  its  power  of 
appeal  to  his  sodden  soul,  now  stirred  him  to  the 
very  depth  of  his  being.  The  crisp,  sun-sweet  air 
of  the  autumn  mornings,  when  he  went  forth  with 
his  ax  to  the  day's  clean  labor,  was  a  draught  of  po 
tent  magic  that  set  every  nerve  of  him  tingling  with 
delight.  The  woodland  hillside,  where  he  worked, 
was  a  wonderland  of  beautiful  creations  that  in 
spired  a  thousand  glowing  fancies.  Sometimes,  at 
his  heavy  task,  he  would  pause  for  a  moment's  rest, 
and  so  would  look  out  and  away  over  the  vast  ex 
panse  of  country  that  from  his  feet  stretched  in  all 
its  charm  of  winding  river  and  wooded  slopes,  and 
tree-fringed  ridges  to  the  far,  blue  sky-line;  and  the 
very  soul  of  him  would  answer  to  the  call  as  he  had 
thought  he  never  could  answer  again.  The  very 
clouds  that  drifted  past  on  their  courses  to  unseen 
ports  beyond  the  hills  were  freighted  with  meaning 
for  him  now.  The  winds  that  came  laden  with  the 
subtly  blended  perfume  of  ten  thousand  varieties 
of  trees  and  grasses  and  shrubs  and  flowers  whispered 


137 


THE  RE-CKEATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

words  of  life  which  he  now  could  hear.  The  loveli 
ness  of  the  glowing  morning  skies,  as  he  saw  them 
when  he  rose  for  the  day's  work,  and  the  glories  of  the 
sunsets,  as  he  watched  them  with  Auntie  Sue  from 
the  porch  when  the  day's  task  was  accomplished, 
filled  him  with  an  exquisite  gladness  which  he  had 
never  hoped  to  know  again. 

Most  of  all,  did  the  river  speak  to  him;  not,  in 
deed,  as  it  had  spoken  that  dreadful  night,  when, 
from  the  window  of  his  darkened  room,  he  had  lis 
tened  to  its  call:  the  river  spoke,  now,  in  the  full 
day  as  his  eye  followed  its  winding  length  through 
the  hills  in  all  its  varied  beauty  of  sunshine  and 
shadow; — of  gleaming  silver  and  living  green  and 
russet-brown.  It  talked  to  him  in  the  evening  when 
the  waters  gave  back  the  glories  of  the  sky  and  the 
deepening  twilight  wrapped  the  world  in  its  dusky 
veil  of  mystery.  It  spoke  to  him  in  the  soft  dark 
ness  of  the  night,  as  it  swept  on  its  way  under  the 
stars,  or  in  the  light  of  the  golden  moon.  And,  in 
time,  some  of  these  things  which  the  river  said  to 
him,  he,  in  turn,  told  to  Auntie  Sue. 

And  Auntie  Sue,  delighted  with  the  man's  awak 
ening  self,  and  charmed  with  his  power  of  thought 

138 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

and  his  gift  of  expression,  led  him  on.  With  artful 
suggestion  and  skilful  question  and  subtle  argument, 
she  stimulated  his  mind  and  fancy  to. lay  hold  of 
the  truths  and  beauties  that  life  and  nature  offered. 
But  ever  the  rare  old  gentlewoman  was  his  teacher, 
revealing  himself  to  himself ;  guiding  him  to  a  fuller 
discovery  and  knowledge  of  his  own  life  and  its 
meaning,  which,  indeed,  is  the  true  aim  and  end  of 
all  right  teaching. 

So  the  days  of  the  autumn  passed.  The  hills 
changed  their  robes  of  varied  green  for  costumes  of 
brown  and  gold,  with  touches  here  and  there  of  flam 
ing  scarlet  and  brilliant  yellow.  And  then  winter 
was  at  hand,  and  that  momentous  evening  came  when 
Auntie  Sue  said  to  her  pupil,  after  an  hour  of  most 
interesting  talk,  "Brian,  why  in  the  world  don't 
you  write  a  book  ?" 

"  'A.  book' !"  exclaimed  Brian,  in  a  startled  tone. 

Judy  laughed.  "He  sure  ought  ter.  Lord  knows 
he  talks  like  one." 

"I  am  in  earnest,  Brian,"  said  Auntie  Sue,  her 
lovely  old  eyes  shining  with  enthusiasm  and  her  gen 
tle  voice  trembling  with  excitement.  "I  have  been 
thinking  about  it  for  a  long  time,  now,  and,  to-night, 

139 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

I  just  can't  keep  it  to  myself  any  longer.  Why  don't 
you  give  to  the  world  some  of  the  thoughts  you  have 
been  wasting  on  Judy  and  me  ?" 

"Hit's  sure  been  a-wastin'  of  'em  on  me,"  agreed 
Judy.  "  'Fore  God,  I  don't  sense  what  he's  a-talkin' 
'bout,  more'n  half  the  time." 

Brian  laughed.  "Judy  is  prophetic,  Auntie  Sue. 
She  voices  perfectly  the  sentiment  of  the  world  to 
ward  any  book  I  might  write." 

Auntie  Sue  detected  a  note  of  bitterness  underly 
ing  the  laughing  comment,  and  wondered. 

Judy  spoke  again  as  she  arose  to  retire  to  her 
room  for  the  night :  "I  reckon  as  how  there's  a  right 
smart  of  things  youuns  talk  that'd  be  mighty  fine  if 
a  body  only  had  the  learnin'  ter  sense  'em.  An'  there 
must  be  heaps  of  folks  where  youuns  come  from  what 
would  know  Mr.  Burns's  meaning  if  he  was  to  write 
hit  all  out  plain.  Everybody  ain't  like  me.  Hit's 
sure  a  God's-blessin'  they  ain't,  too." 

"And  there,  Brian,  dear,  is  your  answer,"  said 
Auntie  Sue,  as  Judy  left  the  room.  "Any  book  has 
meaning  only  for  those  who  have  the  peculiar  sym 
pathy  and  understanding  needed  to  interpret  it.  A 
book  that  means  nothing  to  one  may  be  rich  in  mean- 

140 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

ing  for  another.  Every  writer  writes  for  his  own 
peculiar  readers,  just  as  every  individual  has  his  own 
peculiar  friends." 

"Or  enemies/"'  said  Brian. 

"Or  enemies/'  agreed  Auntie  Sue. 

Brian  went  to  the  window,  and  stood  for  some 
time,  looking  out  into  the  night.  Then  turning,  with 
a  nervous  gesture,  he  paced  uneasily  up  and  down 
the  room ;  while  Auntie  Sue  watched  him  in  silence 
with  an  expression  of  loving  concern  on  her  dear 
old  face. 

At  last,  she  spoke:  "Why,  Brian,  what  is  the 
matter  ?  What  have  I  said  ?  I  did  not  mean  to  up 
set  you  like  this.  Come,  sit  down  here,  and  tell  me 
about  it.  What  is  it  troubles  you  so?" 

With  a  short  laugh,  Brian  came  and  stood  before 
her.  "I  suppose  it  had  to  come  sooner  or  later, 
Auntie  Sue.  I  have  been  trying  for  days  to  muster 
up  courage  enough  to  tell  you  about  it.  You  have 
touched  the  one  biggest  thing  in  my  life." 

"Why,  what  do  you  mean,  Brian?" 

"I  mean  just  what  we  have  been  talking  about, — 
writing,"  answered  Brian. 

"Oh!"     she    cried,     with    quick     and     delighted 

141 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN"  KENT 

triumph.  "Then  I  am  right.  You  have  been  think 
ing  about  it,  too." 

"Thinking  about  it!"  he  echoed,  and  in  his  voice 
she  felt  the  nervous  intensity  of  his  mood.  "I  have 
thought  of  nothing  else.  All  day  long  when  I  am  at 
work,  I  am  writing,  writing,  writing.  It  is  the  last 
thing  on  my  mind  when  I  go  to  sleep.  I  dream  about 
it  all  night.  And  it  is  the  first  thing  I  think  about 
in  the  morning." 

Auntie  Sue  clasped  her  hands  to  her  heart  with 
an  exclamation  of  joyous  interest. 

Brian,  with  a  quiet  smile  at  her  enthusiasm,  went 
on:  "I  know  exactly  what  I  want  to  say,  and  why 
I  want  to  say  it.  There  is  a  world  of  people,  Auntie 
Sue,  whose  lives  have  been  broken  and  spoiled  by  one 
thing  or  another,  and  who  have  more  or  less  cut 
themselves  loose  from  everything,  and  are  just  drift 
ing,  they  don't  care  a  hang  where,  because  they  think 
they  have  failed  so  completely  that  there  is  nothing 
more  in  life  for  them.  People  like  me, — I  don't 
mean  thieves  and  criminals  necessarily, — who  have 
had  that  which  they  know  to  bo  the  best  and  biggest 
and  truest  part  of  themselves  tortured  and  warped 
and  twisted  and  denied  and  smashed  and  beaten  and 

142 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

betrayed  and  killed ;  and  who,  because  they  feel  that 
their  real  selves  are  dead  within  them,  don't  care 
what  happens  to  that  part  which  is  left." 

He  was  walking  the  floor  again  now,  and  speaking 
with  a  depth  of  feeling  which  he  had  never  before 
revealed  to  his  gentle  companion. 

"It  is  not  so  much  the  love  of  wrong-doing  that 
makes  people  turn  bad," — he  continued, — "it  is  hav 
ing  their  real  selves  misunderstood  and  doubted  and 
smothered  and  their  realest  loves  and  dreams  and 
aspirations  never  recognized,  or  else  distorted  and 
twisted  and  made  to  appear  as  something  they  hate. 
I  want  to  make  the  people — and  there  are  many 
thousands  of  them — who  are  suffering  in  the  living 
hell  that  tormented  me,  feel  that  I  know  and  under 
stand.  And  then,  Auntie  Sue,  then  I  want  to  tell 
them  about  you  and  your  river. 

"I  would  teach  them  the  things  you  hr^e  taught 
me.  I  would  say  to  every  one  that  I  could  persuade 
to  listen:  'It  doesn't  in  the  least  matter  what  your 
experience  is,  the  old  river  is  still  going  on  to  the 
sea.  No  matter  if  every  woman  you  ever  knew  has 
proved  untrue,  virtuous  womanhood  still  is.  No  mat 
ter  if  every  man  you  ever  knew  has  proved  false,  true 

143 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

manhood  still  is.  If  every  friend  you  ever  had  has 
betrayed  your  friendship,  loyal  friendship  still  is. 
If  you  have  found  nothing  in  your  experience  but 
dishonesty  and  falsehood  and  infidelity  and  hypoc 
risy,  it  is  only  because  you  have  been  unfortunate  in 
your  experience;  because  honesty  and  fidelity  and 
sincerity  are  existing  facts.  They  are  the  very  foun 
dation  facts  of  life,  and  can  no  more  fail  life  than 
the  river  can  fail  to  reach  the  sea. 

"  'Your  little  individual  experience,  my  little  indi 
vidual  experience, — what  are  they?  They  are  noth 
ing  more  than  the  tiny  bubbles,  swirls,  ripples,  and 
breaks  on  the  surface  of  the  great  volume  of  water 
that  flows  so  inevitably  onward.  The  bit  of  foam, 
the  tiny  wave  caused  by  twig  or  branch  or  blade  of 
water-grass,  or  the  great  rocks  and  cliffs  that  make 
the  roaring  whirlpools  and  rapids, — do  they  stay  the 
waters,  or  turn  the  river  back  on  its  course,  or  in 
any  way  prevent  its  onward  flow?  No  more  can 
the  twigs  of  circumstances,  or  the  boughs  of  environ 
ment,  or  the  grasses  of  accident  that  make  the  tiny 
waves  of  our  individual  experiences, — or  even  the 
great  rocks  and  cliffs  of  national  or  racial  import, — 


144 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

such  as  wars,  and  pestilence,  and  famine, — finally 
check  or  stay  the  river  of  life  in  its  onward  flow  to 
ward  the  sea  of  its  final  and  infinite  meaning.' ' 

He  went  again  to  the  window,  and  stood  looking 
out  into  the  night  as  though  listening  to  the  voices. 

"Why,  Auntie  Sue/'  he  said,  turning  back  to  the 
old  gentlewoman, — and  his  face  was  radiant  with  the 
earnestness  of  this  thought, — "Auntie  Sue,  there  are 
as  many  currents  in  our  river  out  there  as  there  are 
human  lives.  A  comparatively  few  great  main  or 
dominant  currents  in  the  river  flow — a  comparatively 
few  great  dominant  currents  in  the  river  flow  of  life. 
But  if  you  look  closer,  you  will  see  that  in  each  one 
of  those  established  principal  currents  there  are 
countless  thousands — millions — of  tiny  currents  all 
turning  and  twisting  across,  and  back,  and  up,  and 
down  in  every  direction, — weaving  themselves  to 
gether, — pulling  themselves  apart, — criss-crossing, — 
clashing, — interlacing, — tangled  and  confused, — and 
these  are  the  individual  lives.  And  no  matter  what 
the  conflict  or  confusion;  no  matter  what  direction 
they  take  for  the  moment,  they  all,  all,  go  to  make  up 
the  river; — they,  all  together,  are  the  river, — and 


14:5 


THE  KE-CKEATION  OF  BKIAN  KENT 

they  all  together  move  onward, — ceaselessly,  inevi 
tably,  irresistibly." 

He  paused  to  stand  smiling  down  at  her,  as  she 
sat  there  in  her  low  chair  beside  the  table  with  the 
lamplight  on  her  silvery  hair, — there  in  the  little  log 
house  by  the  river. 

"That  is  what  you  have  made  your  river  mean  to 
me,  Auntie  Sue;  and  that  is  what  I  would  give  to 
the  world." 

With  trembling  hands,  the  gentle  old  teacher 
reached  for  her  handkerchief,  which  lay  in  the  sew 
ing-basket  on  the  table  beside  her.  Smilingly,  she 
-wiped  away  the  tears  that  filled  her  eyes.  Lovingly, 
she  looked  up  at  him, — standing  so  tall  and  strong 
before  her,  with  his  reddish  hair  tumbled  and  tossed, 
and  his  Irish  blue  eyes  lighted  with  the  fire  of  his 
inspiration. 

"Well,"  she  said,  at  last,  "why  don't  you  do  it, 
Brian?" 

As  a  breath  of  air  puts  out  the  light  of  a  candle, 
so  the  light  went  from  Brian  Kent's  face.  Dropping 
into  his  chair,  he  answered  hopelessly,  "Because  I 
,am  afraid." 

"Afraid?"    echoed    Auntie    Sue,    troubled    and 

146 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

amazed.  "What  in  the  world  are  you  afraid  of, 
Brian  ?" 

And  the  bitter,  bitter  answer  came,  "I  am  afraid 
of  another  failure." 

Auntie  Sue's  quick  mind  caught  the  significance 
of  his  words.  "Another  failure,  Brian?  Then  you, 
— then  you  have  written  before  ?" 

"Yes,"  he  returned.  And  not  since  his  decision 
to  remain  with  her  had  she  seen  him  so  despondent. 
"To  write  was  the  dream  and  the  passion  of  my  life. 
I  tried  and  tried.  God,  how  I  worked  and  slaved  at 
it!  The  only  result  from  my  efforts  was  the  hell 
from  which  you  dragged  me." 

After  a  little  silence,  Auntie  Sue  said  gently :  "I 
don't  think  I  understand,  Brian.  You  have  never 
told  me  about  your  trouble,  you  know." 

"It  is  an  old,  old  story,"  he  returned.  "I  am  only 
one  of  thousands.  My  wretched  experience  is  not  at 
all  uncommon." 

"I  know,"  she  answered.  "But  don't  you  think 
that  perhaps  you  had  better  tell  me?  Perhaps,  in 
the  mere  telling  of  it  to  me,  now  that  it  is  all  over, 
you  may  find  the  real  reason  for — for  what  hap 
pened  to  you." 

147 


THE  EE-CKEATIOIST  OF  BKIAN  KENT 

Wise  Auntie  Sue! — wise  in  that  rarest  of  all  wis 
dom, — the  sympathetic  understanding  of  human 
hearts  and  souls. 

"You  know  about  my  earlier  life,"  he  began; 
"how,  in  my  boyhood,  after  mother's  death,  I  worked 
at  anything  I  could  do  to  keep  myself  alive,  and  how 
I  managed  to  gain  a  little  schooling.  I  was  always 
dreaming  of  writing,  even  then.  I  took  the  business 
course  in  a  night-school,  not  because  I  liked  it,  but 
because  I  thought  it  would  help  me  to  earn  a  living 
in  a  way  that  would  give  me  more  time  for  what  I 
really  wanted  to  do.  And  after  I  finished  school, 
and  had  finally  worked  up  to  a  good  position  in  that 
bank,  I  did  have  more  time  for  my  writing.  But," 
— he  hesitated — "I — well, — other  interests  had  come 
into  my  life, — and — " 

Auntie  Sue  said,  softly,  "She  did  not  understand, 
Brian." 

"No,  she  did  not  understand,"  he  continued,  ac 
cepting  Auntie  Sue's  interpretation  without  com 
ment.  "And  when  my  writing  brought  no  money, 
because  no  publisher  would  accept  my  stuff,  and  the 
conditions  under  which  I  wrote  became  intolerable 
because  of  misunderstanding  and  opposition  and  dis- 

148 


Auntie  Sue  said,  softly,  "She  did  not  understand,  Brian." 


THE  RE-CKEATIOX  OF  BRIAX  KENT 

belief  in  my  ability  and  charges  of  neglect,  I — I — 
stole  money  from  my  employers  to  gain  temporary 
relief  until  my  writing  should  amount  to  something. 
You  see,  I  could  not  help  believing  that  I  would  suc 
ceed,  in  time.  I  suppose  all  dreamers  have  more  or 
less  confidence  in  their  dreams :  they  must,  you  know, 
or  their  dreams  would  never  be  realized.  I  always 
expected  to  pay  back  the  money  I  took  with  the  money 
I  would  earn  by  my  pen.  But  I  failed  to  earn  any 
thing,  you  see;  and  then — then  the  inevitable  hap 
pened,  and  the  river  brought  me  to  you." 

"But,  my  dear  boy!"  cried  Auntie  Sue,  "all  this 
that  you  have  told  me  is  no  reason  why  you  should 
fear  to  write  now.  Indeed,  it  is  a  very  good  reason 
why  you  should  not  fear." 

He  looked  at  her  questioningly,  and  she  contin 
ued  :  "You  have  given  every  reason  in  the  world  why 
you  failed.  Your  whole  life  was  out  of  tune.  How 
could  you  expect  to  produce  anything  worthy  from 
such  a  j  angling  discord  ?  You  should  have  been 
afraid,  indeed,  to  write  then.  But,  now, — now, 
Brian,  you  are  ready.  You  are  a  long,  long  way 
down  the  river  from  the  place  of  your  failures.  The 
disturbing,  distracting  things  are  past, — just  as  in 

149 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

the  quiet  reach  of  the  river  below  Elbow  Rock  the 
turmoil  of  the  rapids  is  past.  You  say  that  you  know 
exactly  what  you  want  to  write,  and  why  you  want 
to  write  it — and  you  do  know — and  because  you 
know, — because  you  have  suffered, — because  you 
have  learned, — because  you  can  do  this  thing  for 
others, — it  is  yours  to  do,  and  so  you  must  do  it. 
What  you  really  mean  when  you  say  you  are  'afraid 
to  write'  is,  that  you  are  afraid  not  to"  she  finished 
with  a  little  laugh  of  satisfaction. 

And  Brian  Kent,  as  he  watched  her  glowing  face 
and  felt  the  sincerity  and  confidence  that  vibrated 
in  her  voice,  was  thrilled  with  a  new  courage.  The 
fires  of  his  inspiration  shone  again  in  his  eyes,  as  he 
answered,  with  deep  conviction,  "Auntie  Sue,  I  be 
lieve  you  are  right.  What  a  woman  you  are  1" 


150 


CHAPTER  XII. 

AUNTIE  SUE  TAKES  A  CHANCE. 

0  Brian  wrote  his  book  that  winter* 

When  the  days  were  fair,  he  worked  with 
his  ax  on  the  mountain-side.  But  his  note 
book  was  ever  at  hand,  and  many  a  thought  that  went 
clown  on  the  pages  of  his  manuscript  was  born  while 
he  wrought  with  his  hands  in  the  wholesome  labor 
which  gave  strength  to  his  body  and  clearness  to  his- 
brain.  In  the  evenings,  he  wrote  in  the  little  log 
house  by  the  river,  with  Auntie  Sue  sitting  in  her 
chair  beside  the  table, — the  lamp-light  on  her  silvery 
hair,  and  her  sewing-basket  within  reach  of  her  handy 
— engaged  with  some  bit  of  needlework,  a  book,  or 
perhaps  with  one  of  her  famous  letters  to  some  other 
pupil,  far  away.  The  stormy  days  gave  him  many 
hours  with  his  pen,  and  so  the  book  grew. 

And  always  as  the  man  endeavored  to  shape  his 
thoughts  for  the  printed  pages  that  would  carry  his 
message  to  the  doubting,  disconsolate,  and  fearful 
world  that  he  knew  so  well,  he  heard  in  his  heart 

151 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

the  voices  of  the  river.  Erom  the  hillside  where  he 
worked  in  the  timber  he  could  see  the  stream  winding 
through  the  snowy  hills  like  a  dark  line  carelessly 
drawn  with  many  a  crook  and  curve  and  break  on 
the  sheet  of  white.  Erom  the  porch  he  saw  the  quiet 
Bend  a  belt  of  shining  ice  and  snow,  save  for  a  nar 
row  line  in  the  centre,  which  marked  the  course  of 
the  strongest  currents ;  while  the  waters  of  the  rapids 
crashed  black  and  dreadful  against  the  Elbow  Rock 
cliff,  which  stood  gaunt  and  grim  amid  the  surround 
ing  whiteness ;  and  in  the  deathlike  hush  of  the  win 
ter  twilight,  the  roar  of  the  turmoil  sounded  with 
persistent  menace.  And  all  that  the  river  said  to 
him  he  put  down, — so  far  as  it  was  given  him  to  do. 

And  that  which  Brian  Kent  wrote  was  good.  He 
knew  it — in  his  deepest,  truest  self  he  knew.  And 
Auntie  Sue  knew  it;  for,  of  course,  he  read  to  her 
from  his  manuscript  as  the  book  grew  under  his 
hand.  Even  Judy  caught  much  of  his  story's  mean 
ing,  and  marvelled  at  herself  because  she,  too,  could 
understand. 

So  the  spring  came,  and  the  first  writing  of  the 
book  was  nearly  finished. 

And  now  the  question  arose:     What  would  they 

152 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

do  about  the  final  preparation  of  the  manuscript  for 
the  printers?  Brian  explained  that  he  should  have 
a  typewritten  copy  of  his  script,  which  he  would  work 
over,  correct,  and  revise,  and  from  which  perfected 
copy  the  final  manuscript  would  be  typewritten.  But 
neither  Auntie  Sue  nor  Brian  would  consider  his 
finishing  the  book  anywhere  but  in  the  little  log 
house  by  the  river;  even  if  there  had  been  no  other 
reason  why  Brian  should  not  go  to  the  city,  if  it 
could  be  avoided. 

"There  is  only  one  thing  to  do," — said  Auntie 
Sue,  at  last,  when  the  matter  had  been  discussed 
several  times, — "we  must  send  for  Betty  Jo.  She 
has  been  studying  stenography  in  a  business  college 
in  Cincinnati,  and,  in  her  latest  letter  to  me,  she 
wrote  that  she  would  finish  in  April.  I'll  just  write 
her  to  come  right  here,  and  bring  her  typewriter 
along.  She  will  need  a  vacation,  and  she  can  have 
it  and  do  your  work  at  the  same  time.  Besides,  I 
need  to  see  Betty  Jo.  She  hasn't  been  to  visit  me 
since  before  Judy  came." 

Brian  thought  that  Auntie  Sue  seemed  a  little  nerv 
ous  and  excited  as  she  spoke,  but  he  attributed  it 
to  her  combined  interest  in  the  book  and  in  the  pro- 

153 


THE  KE-CKEATION  OF  BKIAN  KENT 

posed  typist.  The  man  could  not  know  the  real  cause 
of  his  gentle  old  companion's  agitation,  nor  with 
what  anxiety  she  had  considered  the  matter  for  many 
days  before  she  announced  her  plan.  The  fact  was 
that  Auntie  Sue  was  taking  a  big  chance,  and  she 
realized  it  fully.  But  she  could  find  no  other  way 
to  secure  the  services  of  a  competent  stenographer 
for  Brian,  and,  as  Brian  must  have  a  competent  ste 
nographer  in  order  to  finish  his  book  properly,  she 
had  decided  to  accept  the  risk. 

"That  sounds  all  right,  Auntie  Sue,"  returned 
Brian.  "But  who,  pray  tell,  is  Betty  Jo  ?" 

"Betty  Jo  is," — Aunt'e  Sue  paused  and  laughed 
with  a  suggestion  of  embarrassed  confusion, — "Betty 
Jo  is — just  Betty  Jo,  Brian,"  she  finished. 

Brian  laughed  now.  "Fine,  Auntie  Sue !  That  de 
scribes  her  exactly, — tells  me  her  life's  history  and 
gives  me  a  detailed  account  of  her  family, — ances 
tors  and  all." 

"It  describes  her  with  more  accuracy  than  you 
think,"  retorted  Auntie  Sue,  smiling  in  return  at 
his  teasing  manner. 

"I  reckon  as  how  she's  got  more  of  er  name  than 
that,  ain't  she?"  said  Judy,  who  was  a  silent,  but 

154 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

intensely  interested,  listener.  "I've  allus  took  no 
tice  that  folks  with  funny  names'll  stand  a  right 
smart  of  watchin'." 

Brian  and  Auntie  Sue  laughed  together  at  this, 
but  the  old  lady  said,  with  a  show  of  spirit :  "Judy ! 
You  know  nothing  about  it!  You  never  even  saw 
Betty  Jo !  You  shouldn't  say  such  things,  child." 

"Might  as  well  say  'em  as  ter  think  'em,  I  reckon," 
Judy  returned,  her  beady-black  eyes  stealthily  watch 
ing  Brian. 

"What  is  your  Betty  Jo's  real  name,  Auntie  Sue  ?" 
asked  Brian,  curiously. 

Again  Auntie  Sue  seemed  to  hesitate ;  then — "Her 
name  is  Miss  Betty  Jo  Williams,"  and  as  she  spoke 
the  old  teacher  looked  straight  at  Brian. 

"A  perfectly  good  name,"  Brian  returned;  "but 
I  never  heard  of  her  before." 

Judy's  black  eyes,  with  their  stealthy,  oblique  look, 
were  now  watchfully  fixed  on  Auntie  Sue. 

"She  is  the  orphan-niece  of  one  of  my  old  pupils," 
Auntie  Sue  continued.  "I  have  known  her  since 
she  was  a  baby.  When  she  finished  her  education 
in  the  seminary,  and  had  travelled  abroad  for  a  few 
months,  she  decided  all  at  once  that  she  wanted  a 

155 


THE  EE-CKEATION  OF  BKIAN  KENT 

course  in  a  business  college,  which  was  just  what  any 
one  knowing  her  would  expect  her  to  do." 

"Sounds  steady  and  reliable,"  commented  Brian. 
"But  will  she  come  ?" 

"Yes,  indeed,  she  will,  and  be  tickled  to  death 
over  the  job,"  returned  Auntie  Sue.  "I'll  write  her 


at  once." 


While  Auntie  Sue  was  preparing  to  write  her  let 
ter,  Judy  muttered,  in  a  tone  which  only  Brian 
heard:  "Just  the  same,  'tain't  no  name  for  a  com 
mon  gal  ter  have;  hit  sure  ain't.  There's  somethin' 
dad  burned  queer  'bout  hit  somewhere." 

"Nonsense!  Judy,"  said  Brian  in  a  low  voice; 
"don't  worry  Auntie  Sue." 

"I  ain't  aimin'  ter  worry  her  none,"  returned  the 
mountain  girl ;  "but  I'll  bet  you-all  a  pretty  that  this 
here  gal'll  worry  both  of  youuns  'fore  you  are  through 
with  her ; — me,  too,  I  reckon." 

For  some  reason,  Auntie  Sue's  letter  to  Betty  Jo 
seemed  to  be  rather  long.  In  fact,  she  spent  the  en 
tire  evening  at  it;  which  led  Judy  to  remark  that 
"hit  sure  looked  like  Auntie  Sue  was  aimin'  ter  write 
a  book  herself." 

A  neighbor  who  went  to  Thompsonville  the  fol- 

156 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIA^"  KENT 

lowing  day  with  a  load  of  hogs  for  shipment,  posted 
the  letter.  And,  in  due  time,  another  neighbor 
brought  the  answer.  Betty  Jo  would  come. 

It  was  the  day  following  the  evening  when  Brian 
wrote  the  last  page  of  his  book  that  another  letter 
came  to  Auntie  Sue, — a  letter  which,  for  the  second 
time,  very  nearly  wrecked  Brian  Kent's  world. 


157 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

JUDY  TO  THE  RESCUE. 

|  HI  AN  was  working  in  the  garden.  It  was 
early  in  the  afternoon,  and  the  man,  as  he 
worked  in  the  freshly  ploughed  ground,  was 
rejoicing  at  the  completion  of  his  book. 

Straightening  up  from  his  labor,  he  drew  a  deep 
breath  of  the  fragrant  air.  About  him  on  every  side, 
and  far  away  into  the  blue  distance,  the  world  was 
dressed  in  the  gala  dress  of  the  season.  The  river, 
which  at  the  breaking  of  the  winter  had  been  a  yel 
low  flood  that  washed  the  top  of  the  bank  in  front 
of  the  house  and  covered  the  bottom-lands  on  the 
opposite  side,  was  again  its  normal  self,  and  its  voice 
to  him,  now,  was  a  singing  voice  of  triumphal  glad 
ness. 

For  Brian,  too,  the  world  was  new,  and  fresh,  and 
beautiful.  The  world  of  his  winter  was  gone.  He 
had  found  himself  in  his  work,  and  in  the  glorious 
consciousness  of  the  fact  he  felt  like  shouting  with 
sheer  joy  of  living. 

158 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

"And  Auntie  Sue,  dear  Auntie  Sue,"  he  thought, 
looking  with  love  in  his  eves  toward  the  house,  how 
wonderful  she  had  been  in  her  helpful  understand 
ing  and  never-failing  faith  in  him.  After  all,  it  was 
Auntie  Sue's  triumph  more  than  it  was  his. 

His  happy  musing  was  interrupted  by  a  neighbor 
who,  on  his  way  home  from  Thompsonville,  stopped 
at  the  garden  fence  with  the  letter  for  Auntie  Sue. 

Brian  took  the  letter  with  a  jest  which  brought  a 
roar  of  laughter  from  the  mountaineer,  and,  when 
the  latter  had  gone  on  his  way  up  the  hill,  started 
toward  the  house  to  find  Auntie  Sue. 

Glancing  at  the  envelope  in  his  hand,  Brian  noticed 
the  postmark  "Buenos  Aires."  He  stopped  suddenly, 
staring  dumbly  at  the  words  in  the  circular  mark 
and  at  the  name  written  on  the  envelope.  Over  and 
over,  he  read  "Buenos  Aires, — Miss  Susan  Wake- 
field  ;  Buenos  Aires, — Miss  Susan  Wakefield."  Some 
thing —  His  brain  seemed  to  be  numb.  His  hands 
trembled.  He  looked  about  at  the  familiar  sur 
roundings,  and  everything  seemed  suddenly  strange 
and  unreal  to  him.  He  looked  again  at  the  letter 
in  his  hand  turning  it  curiously.  A  strange  feeling 
of  oppression  and  ominous  foreboding  possessed  him 

159 


THE  BE-CBEATKOT  OF  BBIAN  KENT 

as  though  the  bright  spring  sky  were  all  at  once 
overcast  with  heavy  and  menacing  storm-clouds.  What 
was  it  ?  "Buenos  Aires, — Susan  Wakefield  ?"  Where 
had  he  seen  that  combination  before  ?  What  was  it 
that  made  the  name  of  the  Argentine  city  in  con 
nection  with  Auntie  Sue's  name  seem  so  familiar  ? 
Slowly,  he  went  on  to  the  house,  and,  finding  Auntie 
Sue,  gave  her  the  letter. 

"Oh !"  cried  the  old  lady,  as  she  saw  the  postmark 
on  the  envelope.  "It  must  be  from  brother  John. 
It  is  not  John's  writing,  though,"  she  added,  as  she 
opened  the  envelope. 

And  at  her  words  the  feeling  of  impending  disas 
ter  so  oppressed  Brian  Kent  that  only  by  an  effort 
could  he  control  himself.  He  was  possessed  of  the 
strange  sensation  of  having  at  some  time  in  the  past 
lived  the  identical  experience  through  which  he  was 
at  that  moment  passing.  "Susan  Wakefield; — a 
brother  John  in  Buenos  Aires,  Argentine; — the  let 
ter!"  It  was  all  so  familiar  that  the  allusion  was 
startling  in  its  force.  But  that  ominous  cloud, — 
that  sense  of  some  great  trouble  near  that  filled  him 
with  such  unaccountable  dread — what  could  it  mean  ? 

An  exclamation  from  Auntie  Sue  drew  his  atten- 

160 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

tion.  She  looked  at  him  with  tear-filled  eyes,  and 
her  sweet  voice  broke  as  she  said :  "Brian !  Brian ! 
John  is  dead!  This — this  letter  is  from  the  doctor 
who  attended  him." 

Te  iderly,  as  he  would  have  helped  his  own  mother, 
Brian  assisted  Auntie  Sue  to  her  room.  For  a  little 
while  he  sat  with  her,  trying  to  comfort  her  with 
such  poor  words  as  he  could  find. 

Briefly,  she  told  him  of  the  brother  who  had  lived 
in  Argentine  for  many  years.  He  had  married  a 
South- American  woman  whom  Auntie  Sue  had  never 
seen,  and  while  not  wealthy  had  been  moderately 
prosperous.  But  he  had  never  forgotten  his  sister 
who  was  so  alone  in  the  world.  "Several  times, 
when  he  could,  he  sent  me  money  for  my  savings- 
bank  account,"  she  finished  simply,  her  sweet  old 
voice  low  and  tender  with  the  memories  of  the  years 
that  were  gone.  "John  and  I  were  always  very  fond 
of  each  other.  He  was  a  good  man,  Brian." 

Brian  Kent  sat  like  a  man  stricken  dumb.  Auntie 
Sue's  words,  "he  sent  me  money  for  my  savings-bank 
account,"  had  made  the  connection  between  the  names 
"Buenos  Aires,  Argentine;  John  Wakefield;  Susan 
\Vakefield,"  and  the  thing  for  which  his  mind  had 

161 


THE  KE-CKEATION  OF  BEIAIST  KENT 

been  groping  with  such  a  sense  of  impending  disas 
ter. 

In  her  grief  over  the  death  of  her  brother,  and 
in  her  memories  of  their  home  years  so  long  past, 
dear  old  Auntie  Sue  had  forgotten  the  peculiar  mean 
ing  her  words  might  have  for  the  former  clerk  of  the 
Empire  Consolidated  Savings  Bank  who  sat  beside 
her,  and  to  whom  she  turned  in  her  sorrow  as  a 
mother  to  a  dearly  beloved  son. 

"But  it  is  all  right,  Brian,  dear,"  she  said  with 
brave  cheerfulness.  "When  one  has  watched  the 
sunsets  for  seventy  years,  one  ceases  to  fear  the  com 
ing  of  the  night,  for  always  there  is  the  morning. 
Just  let  me  rest  here  alone  for  a  little  while,  and  I 
will  be  myself  again." 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  a  smile,  and  Brian 
Kent,  kneeling  beside  the  bed,  bowed  his  head  and 
caught  the  dear  old  hands  to  his  lips.  Without  trust 
ing  himself  to  speak  again,  the  man  left  the  room, — 
closing  the  door. 

He  moved  about  the  apartment  as  one  in  a  dream. 
With  a  vividness  that  was  torture,  he  lived  again 
that  hour  in  the  bank  when,  opening  the  afternoon 
mail,  he  had  found  the  letter  from  Susan  Wakefield 

162 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

with  the  Argentine  notes,  which  her  letter  said  she 
had  received  from  her  brother  John  in  Buenos  Aires, 
and  which  she  was  sending  to  the  bank  for  deposit 
to  her  little  account.  It  had  been  a  very  unbusiness 
like  letter  and  a  very  unbusinesslike  way  to  trans 
mit  money.  It  was,  indeed,  this  nature  of  the  trans 
action  that  had  tempted  the  hard-pressed  clerk. 

Mechanically,  Brian  stopped  at  his  writing-table 
to  finger  the  manuscript  which  he  had  finished  the 
evening  before.  Was  it  only  the  evening  before? 
Taking  up  the  volume  of  closely  written  sheets  which 
were  bound  together  by  a  shoestring  that  Auntie  Sue 
had  laughingly  found  for  him,  when  he  had  so  joy 
ously  announced  the  completion  of  the  last  page  of 
his  book,  he  turned  the  leaves  idly, — reading  here 
and  there  a  sentence  with  curious  interest.  The  ter 
rific  mental  strain  of  his  situation  completely  di 
vorced  him,  as  it  were,  from  the  life  which  he  had 
lived  during  those  happy  months  just  past,  and  which 
was  so  fully  represented  by  his  work. 

Again  the  river,  swinging  around  a  sudden  turn 
in  its  course,  had  come  upon  a  passage  where  its 
peaceful  flow  was  broken  by  the  wild  turmoil  of  the 
troubled  waters. 

163 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

"And  Auntie  Sue," — something  within  the  man's 
self  was  saying, — "dear  Auntie  Sue,  who  had  saved 
him,  not  only  from  death,  but  from  the  hell  of  the 
life  that  he  had  formerly  lived,  as  well;  and  whose 
loving  companionship  and  sympathetic  understanding 
had  so  inspired  and  strengthened  him  in  the  work 
which  had  been  the  passionate  desire  of  his  heart; — 
the  gentle  old  teacher  whose  life  had  been  so  com 
pletely  given  to  others,  and  who,  in  the  helplessness 
of  her  last  years,  was  so  alone, — Auntie  Sue  was  de 
pending  upon  that  money  which  her  brother  had 
sent  her  as  the  only  support  of  the  closing  days  of 
her  life.  Auntie  Sue  believed  that  her  money  was 
safe  in  the  bank.  That  belief  was  to  her  a  daily 
comfort.  Auntie  Sue  did  not  know  that  she  was  al 
most  penniless; — that  the  man  whom  she  had  saved 
with  such  a  wondrous  salvation  had  robbed  her,  and 
left  her  so  shamefully  without  means  for  the  necessi 
ties  of  life.  Auntie  Sue  did  not  know.  But  she 
would  know," — that  inner  voice  went  on.  "The  time 
would  come  when  she  would  learn  the  truth.  It  was 
certain  to  come.  It  might  come  any  day.  Then — 
then—" 

As  one  moving  without  conscious  purpose,  Brian 

164 


THE  RE-CREATIOX  OF  BRIAtf  KENT 

Kent  went  from  the  house, — the  manuscript  in  his 
hand. 

Judy  was  sitting  idly  on  the  porch  steps.  At  sight 
of  the  mountain  girl  the  man  knew  all  at  once  that 
there  was  one  thing  he  must  do.  He  must  make  sure 
that  there  was  no  mistake.  He  was  already  sure, 
of  course ;  but  still,  as  a  condemned  man  at  the  scaf 
fold  hopes  against  hope  for  a  stay  of  sentence,  so 
he  caught  at  the  shadowy  suggestion  of  a  possibility. 

"Come  with  me,  Judy,"  he  said,  forcing  himself 
to  speak  coolly ;  "I  want  to  talk  with  you." 

Judy  arose,  and,  looking  at  him  in  her  stealthy, 
oblique  way,  said,  in  her  drawling  monotone: 
"What's  happened  ter  Auntie  Sue?  Was  there 
somethin'  in  that  there  letter  Bud  Jackson  giye  you- 
all  for  her  what's  upset  her?" 

"Auntie  Sue's  brother  is  dead,  Judy,"  Brian  an 
swered.  "She  wishes  to  be  alone,  and  we  must  not 
disturb  her.  She  will  be  all  right  in  a  little  while. 
Come,  let  us  walk  down  toward  the  bluff." 

When  they  had  reached  a  spot  on  the  riyer-bank  a 
short  distance  aboye  the  Elbow  Rock  cliff,  Brian 
said  to  his  companion:  "Judy,  I  want  you  to  tell 
me  something.  Did  Auntie  Sue  eyer  send  money  in 

165 


THE  RE-CEEATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

a  letter  to  the  Empire  Consolidated  Savings  Bank, 
in  Chicago  ?" 

The  black,  beady  eyes  shifted  evasively,  and  the 
mountain  girl  turned  her  sallow,  old-young  face  away 
from  Brian's  direct  gaze. 

"Look  at  me,  Judy." 

She  sent  a  stealthy,  oblique  glance  in  his  direction. 

"You  must  tell  me." 

"I  done  started  ter  tell  you-all  onct, — that  time 
pap  ketched  me, — an'  you-all  'lowed  as  how  I  oughten 
ter  tell  nothin'  'bout  Auntie  Sue  to  nobody." 

"But  it  is  different  now,  Judy,"  returned  Brian. 
"Something  has  happened  that  makes  it  necessary  for 
me  to  know." 

"Meanin'  that  there  letter  'bout  her  brother  beinr 
dead  ?"  asked  Judy,  shrewdly. 

"Yes." 

"What  you-all  got  ter  know  for  ?" 

"Because — "  Brian  could  not  finish. 

Judy's  beady  eyes  were  watching  him  intently, 
now.  "Hit  looks  like  you-all  ain't  a-needin'  me  ter 
tell  you-all  anythin',"  she  observed  dryly. 

"Then  Auntie  Sue  did  send  money  ?" 


166 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

"She  sure  did.  I  seed  her  fix  hit  in  the  letter, 
myself/'  came  the  answer. 

"What  kind  of  money?'7 

"I  dunno, — some  funny  kind  hit  was, — what  her 
brother  done  sent  her  from  some  funny  place,  I  dunno 
just  where." 

"When  did  she  send  it?" 

"  'Bout  a  month  'fore  you  come." 

"And — and  did  any  letter  ever  come  from  the 
bank  to  tell  her  that  the  money  was  received  by  them 
all  right?" 

The  mountain  girl  did  not  answer,  but  again 
turned  her  face  away. 

"Tell  me,"  Brian  insisted.  "I— I— must  know, 
Judy,"  and  his  voice  was  harsh  and  broken  with 
emotion. 

The  answer  came  reluctantly:  "I  reckon  you-all 
knows  where  that  there  money  went  ter." 

The  girl's  answer  sent  a  new  thought  like  a  hot 
iron  into  Brian  Kent's  tortured  brain.  He  caught 
Judy's  arm  in  quick  and  fearful  excitement. 
"Judy !"  he  gasped,  imploringly,  "Judy,  do  you —  ? 
does  Auntie  Sue  know —  ?  does  she  know  that  I —  ?" 


167 


THE  KE-CKEATION  OF  BKIAN  KENT 

"How  could  she  help  knowin'  ?  She  ain't  no  fool. 
An'  I  done  heard  that  there  Sheriff  an'  the  detecker- 
tive  man  tellin'  her  'bout  you  an'  the  bank.  An'  the 
Sheriff,  he  done  give  her  a  paper  what  he  said  told 
all  'bout  what  you-all  done,  an'  she  must  er  burned 
the  paper,  er  done  somethin'  with  hit,  'cause  I 
couldn't  never  find  hit  after  that  night.  An'  what 
would  she  do  that  for  ?  And  what  for  did  she  make 
me  promise  not  ter  ever  say  nothin'  ter  you-all  'bout 
that  there  money  letter?  An'  why  ain't  she  said 
nothin'  to  you  'bout  the  letter  from  the  bank  not 
comin',  if  she  didn't  know  hit  was  you  'stead  of 
them  what  done  got  the  money?" 

The  girl  paused  for  a  moment,  and  then  went  on 
in  a  tone  of  reverent  wonder:  "An'  to  think  that 
all  the  time  she  could  a-turned  you-all  over  to  that 
there  Sheriff  an'  got  the  money-reward  to  pay  her 
back  what  you-all  done  tuck." 

Brian  Kent  was  as  one  who  had  received  a  mortal 
hurt.  His  features  were  distorted  with  suffering. 
With  eyes  that  could  not  see,  he  looked  down  at  the 
manuscript  to  which  he  still  unconsciously  clung; 
and,  again,  he  fingered  the  pages  of  his  work  as 


168 


THE  KE-CKEATION  OF  BKIAN  KENT 

though  some  blind  instinct  were  sending  his  tor 
mented  soul  to  seek  relief  in  the  message  which,  dur 
ing  the  happy  months  just  past,  he  had  written  for 
others. 

And  the  deformed  mountain  girl,  who  stood  before 
him  with  twisted  body  and  old-young  face,  grew  fear 
ful  as  she  watched  the  suffering  of  this  man  whom 
she  had  come  to  look  upon  as  a  superior  being  from 
some  world  which  she,  in  her  ignorance,  could  never 
know. 

"Mr.  Burns,''  she  said  at  last,  putting  out  her 
hand  and  plucking  at  his  sleeve,  "Mr.  Burns,  you-all 
ain't  got  no  call  ter  be  like  this.  You-all  ain't  plumb 
bad.  I  knows  you  ain't,  'count  of  the  way  you-all 
have  been  ter  me  an'  'cause  you  kept  pap  from  hurtin' 
me,  an'  'cause  you  are  takhr  care  of  Auntie  Sue  like 
you're  doin'.  Hit  ain't  no  matter  'bout  the  money, 
now,  'cause  you-all  kin  take  care  of  her  allus." 

Brian  looked  up  from  the  manuscript  in  his  hand, 
and  stared  dumbly  at  the  girl,  as  if  he  failed  to  hear 
her  clearly. 

"An*  just  think  'bout  your  book,"  Judy  continued 
pleadingly.  "Think  'bout  all  them  fine  things  you-all 


169 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

have  done  wrote  down  for  everybody  ter  read, — 'bout 
the  river  allus  a-goin'  on  just  the  same,  no  matter 
what  happens,  an'  'bout  Auntie  Sue  an' — " 

She  stopped,  and  drew  away  from  him,  frightened 
at  the  look  that  came  into  the  man's  face. 

"Don't,  Mr.  Burns!  Don't!"  she  half-screamed. 
"  'Fore  God,  you-all  oughten  ter  look  like  that !" 

The  man  threw  up  his  head,  and  laughed, — 
laughed  as  the  wild,  reckless  and  lost  Brian  Kent 
had  laughed  that  black  night  when,  in  the  drifting 
boat,  he  had  cursed  the  life  he  was  leaving  and  had 
drunk  his  profane  toast  to  the  darkness  into  which 
he  was  being  carried. 

Raising  the  manuscript,  which  represented  all  that 
the  past  months  of  his  re-created  life  had  meant  to 
him,  and  grasping  it  in  both  hands,  he  shook  it  con 
temptuously,  as  he  said,  with  indescribable  bitter 
ness  and  the  reckless  surrendering  of  every  hope: 
"  'All  them  fine  things  that  I  have  wrote  down  for 
everybody  ter  read.' '  He  mimicked  her  voice  with 
a  sneer,  and  laughed  again.  Then :  "It's  all  a  lie> 
Judy,  dear; — a  damned  lie.  Auntie  Sue  is  a  saint, 
and  believes  it.  She  made  me  believe  it  for  a  little 
while, — her  beautiful,  impossible  dream-philosophy 

170 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

of  the  river.  The  river, — hell! — the  river  is  as 
treacherous  and  cruel  and  false  and  tricky  and 
crooked  as  life  itself!  And  I  am  as  warped  and 
twisted  in  mind  and  soul  as  you  are  in  body,  Judy, 
dear.  Neither  of  us  can  help  it.  We  were  made  that 
way  by  the  river.  To  hell  with  the  whole  impossible 
mess  of  things !"  With  a  gesture  of  violent  rage,  he 
turned  toward  the  river,  and,  taking  a  step  forward, 
lifted  the  manuscript  high  above  his  head. 

Judy  screamed,  "Mr.  Burns,  don't!" 

He  paused  an  instant,  and,  turning  his  head, 
looked  at  her  with  another  laugh. 

"  'Fore  God,  you  dassn't  do  that !"  she  implored. 

And  then,  as  the  man  turned  his  face  from  her, 
and  his  arms  went  back  above  his  head  for  the  swing 
that  would  send  the  manuscript  far  out  into  the  tum 
bling  waters  of  the  rapids,  she  leaped  toward  him, 
and,  catching  his  arm,  hampered  his  movement  so 
that  the  book  fell  a  few  feet  from  the  shore,  where 
the  water,  checked  a  little  in  its  onward  rush  to  the 
cliff  by  the  irregular  bank,  boiled  and  eddied  among 
the  rocky  ledges  and  huge  boulders  that  retarded  its 
force.  Another  leap  carried  the  mountain  girl  to 
the  edge  of  the  bank,  where  she  crouched  like  a  run- 

171 


THE  RE-CKEATIOtf  OF  BRIA2sT  KENT 

ner  ready  for  the  report  of  the  starter's  pistol,  her 
black,  beady  eyes  searching  the  stream  for  the  volume 
of  manuscript,  which  had  disappeared  from  sight, 
drawn  down  by  the  troubled  swirling  currents. 

The  man,  watching  her,  laughed  in  derision;  but, 
while  his  mocking  laughter  was  still  on  his  lips,  the 
boiling  currents  brought  the  book,  again,  to  the  sur 
face,  and  Brian  saw  the  girl  leave  the  bank  as  if 
thrown  by  a  powerful  spring.  Straight  and  true  she 
dived  for  the  book,  and  even  as  she  disappeared  be 
neath  the  surface  her  hands  clutched  the  manuscript. 

For  a  second,  Brian  Kent  held  his  place  as  if  par 
alyzed  with  horror.  Then,  as  Judy's  head  appeared 
farther  down  the  stream,  he  ran  with  all  his  strength 
along  the  bank  to  gain  a  point  a  little  ahead  of  the 
swimming  girl  before  he  should  leap  to  her  rescue. 

But  Judy,  trained  from  her  birth  on  that  mountain 
river,  knew  better  than  Brian  what  to  do.  A.  short 
distance  below  the  point  where  she  had  plunged  into 
the  stream,  a  huge  boulder,  some  two  or  three  feet 
from  the  shore,  caused  a  split  in  the  current,  one  fork 
of  which  set  in  toward  the  bank.  Swimming  desper 
ately,  the  girl  gained  the  advantage  of  this  current, 
and,  just  as  Brian  reached  the  spot,  she  was  swept 

172 


THE  la] -CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

against  the  bank,  where,  with  her  free  hand,  she 
caught  and  held  fast  to  a  projecting  root.  Had  she 
been  carried  past  that  point,  nothing  could  have  saved 
her  from  being  swept  on  into  the  wild  turmoil  of  the 
waters  at  Elbow  Rock. 

It  was  the  work  of  a  moment  for  Brian  to  throw 
himself  flat  on  the  ground  at  the  edge  of  the  bank 
and,  reaching  down,  to  grasp  the  girl's  wrist.  An 
other  moment,  and  she  was  safe  beside  him,  his 
manuscript  still  tightly  held  under  one  arm. 

Xot  realizing,  in  his  excitement,  what  he  was  do 
ing,  Brian  shook  the  girl,  saying  angrily:  "What 
ILL  the  world  do  you  mean,  taking  such  a  crazy-fool 
chance  as  that!" 

She  broke  away  from  him  with:  "Well,  what'd 
you-all  go  an'  do  such  a  dad  burned  fool  thing  for? 
Hit's  you-all  what's  crazy  yourself — plumb  crazy!" 

Brian  held  out  his  hand:  "Give  me  that  manu 
script!" 

Judy  clutched  the  book  tighter,  and  drew  back  de 
fiantly.  "I  won't.  You-all  done  throwed  hit  away 
onct.  'Tain't  your'ri  no  more,  nohow." 

"'Well,  what  do  you  purpose  to  do  with  it?"  said 
the  puzzled  man,  in  a  gentler  tone. 

173 


THE  KE-CKEATKOT  OF  BKIAJST  KENT 

"I  aims  ter  give  hit  ter  Auntie  Sue,"  came  the 
startling  reply.  "I  reckon  she'll  know  what  ter  do. 
Hit  allus  was  more  her'n  than  your'n,  anyhow.  You 
done  said  so  yourself.  I  heard  you  only  last  night 
when  you-all  was  so  dad  burned  tickled  at  gittin'  hit 
done.  You-all  ain't  got  no  right  ter  sling  hit  inter 
the  river,  an',  anyway,  I  ain't  a-goin'  ter  let  you." 

"Which  sounds  very  sensible  to  me,"  came  a  clear 
voice  from  a  few  feet  distant. 

Judy  and  Brian  turned  quickly,  to  face  a  young 
woman  who  stood  regarding  them  thoughtfully,  with 
a  suggestion  of  a  smile  on  her  very  attractive  face* 


174: 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

BETTY  JO  CONSIDERS. 

|  HE  most  careless  eye  would  have  seen  in 
stantly  that  the  newcomer  was  not  a  native  of 
that  backwoods  district.  She  was  not  a  large 
woman,  but  there  was,  nevertheless,  a  full,  rounded 
strength,  which  saved  her  trim  and  rather  slender 
body  from  appearing  small.  Neither  would  a  dis 
criminating  observer  describe  her  by  that  too-com 
mon  term  "pretty."  She  was  more  than  that.  In 
her  large,  gray  eyes,  there  was  a  look  of  frank, 
straightforward  interest  that  suggested  an  almost 
boyish  good-fellowship,  while  at  the  same  time  there 
was  about  her  a  general  air  of  good  breeding;  with 
a  calm,  self-possessed  and  businesslike  alertness 
which,  combined  with  a  wholesome  dignity,  com 
manded  a  feeling  of  respect  and  confidence.  Her 
Toice  was  clear  and  musical,  with  an  undertone  of 
sympathetic  humor.  One  felt  when  she  spoke  that 
while  she  lacked  nothing  of  intelligent  understanding 


175 


THE  RE-CREATION   OF  BRIAN  KENT 

and  sympathetic  interest,  she  was  quite  ready  to 
laugh  at  you  just  the  same. 

When  the  two  stood  speechless,  she  said,  looking 
straight  at  Brian:  "It  seems  to  me,  sir,  that  the 
young  lady  has  all  the  best  of  the  argument.  But  I 
really  think  she  should  have  some  dry  clothes  as 
well." 

She  turned  to  the  dripping  and  dishevelled  Judy: 
"You  poor  child.  Aren't  you  cold?  It  is  rather 
early  in  the  season  for  a  dip  in  the  river,  I  should 
think.  Let  me  take  whatever  you  have  there,  and  you 
make  for  the  house  as  fast  as  you  can  go, — the  run 
will  warm  you." 

As  she  spoke,  she  went  to  the  mountain  girl,  hold 
ing  out  her  hand  to  take  the  manuscript,  and  smiling 
encouragingly. 

But  Judy  backed  away,  her  stealthy,  oblique  gaze 
fixed  with  watchful  surprise  on  the  fair  stranger. 

"This  here  ain't  none  of  your  put-in,"  and  her 
shrill  drawling  monotone  contrasted  strangely  with 
the  other's  pleasing  voice.  "  Where' d  you-all  happen 
from,  anyhow  ?  How'd  you-all  git  here  '*" 

"I  came  over  the  bluff  by  the  path,"  answered  the 
other.  "You  see,  I  left  the  train  from  the  south  at 

176 


THE  RE-CREATIOJST  OF  BRIAIST  KENT 

White's  Crossing  because  I  knew  I  could  drive  up 
from  there  by  the  river  road  quicker  than  I  could  go 
by  rail  away  around  through  the  hills  to  Thompson- 
ville,  and  then  make  the  drive  down  the  river  from 
there.  When  I  reached  Elbow  Rock,  I  was  in  such 
a  hurry,  I  took  the  short  cut,  while  the  man  with  my 
trunk  and  things  went  by  the  road  over  Schoolhouse 
Hill,  you  know.  I  arrived  here  just  as  this  gentle 
man  was  pulling  you  from  the  water." 

Before  Brian  could  speak,  Judy  returned  with  ex 
citement  :  "I  know  who  you-all  be  now.  I  ought  ter 
knowed  the  minute  I  set  eyes  on  you.  You-all  are 
the  gal  with  that  there  no-'count  name,  an'  you've 
come  ter  work  for  him,  there," — she  pointed  to 
Brian, — "a-helpin'  him  ter  write  his  book,  what  ain7t 
his'n  no  more,  nohow,  'cause  he  done  throwed  hit 
away, — plumb  inter  the  river."' 

"I  am  Miss  Williams,"  returned  the  other.  "My 
'no-'count  name,'  I  suppose,  is  Betty  Jo."  She 
laughed  kindly.  "Perhaps  it  won't  seem  so  'no- 
'count'  when  we  are  better  acquainted,  Judy.  Won't 
you  run  along  to  the  house,  and  change  to  some  dry 
clothes  ?  You  will  catch  your  death  of  cold  if  you 
stand  here  like  this." 

177 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

"How'd  you-all  know  I  was  Judy  ?" 

"Why,  Auntie  Sue  wrote  me  about  you,  of  course." 

"An"  you  knowed  me  'cause  I'm  so  all  crooked  an' 
ugly,  I  reckon,"  came  the  uncompromising  return. 

Betty  Jo  turned  to  Brian:  "You  are  Mr.  Burns, 
are  you  not,  for  whom  I  am  to  work  ?" 

Brian  made  no  reply, — he  really  could  not  speak. 

"And  this," — Betty  Jo  included  Judy,  the  manu 
script,  and  the  river  in  a  graceful  gesture, — "this, 
I  suppose,  is  the  result  of  what  is  called  'the  artistic 
temperament'  ?" 

Still  the  man  could  find  no  words.  The  young 
woman's  presence  and  her  reference  to  his  work 
brought  to  him,  with  overwhelming  vividness,  the 
memory  of  all  to  which  he  had  so  short  a  time  before 
looked  forward,  and  which  was  now  so  hopelessly  lost 
to  him.  He  felt,  too,  a  sense  of  rebellion  that  she 
should  have  come  at  such  a  moment, — that  she  could 
stand  there  with  such  calm  self-possession  and  with 
such  an  air  of  competency.  Her  confidence  and 
poise  in  such  contrast  to  the  chaotic  turmoil  of  his 
xAvn  thoughts,  and  his  utter  helplessness  in  the  situ 
ation  which  had  so  suddenly  burst  upon  him,  filled 
.him  with  unreasoning  resentment. 

178 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

Betty  Jo  must  have  read  in  Brian  Kent's  face 
something  of  the  suffering  that  held  him  there  dumb 
and  motionless  hefore  her,  and  so  sensed  a  deeper 
tragedy  than  appeared  011  the  surface  of  the  incident ; 
and  her  own  face  and  voice  revealed  her  understand 
ing  as  she  said,  with  quiet,  but  decisive,  force: 
"Mr.  Burns,  Judy  must  go  to  the  house.  Won't  you 
persuade  her?" 

Brian  started  as  one  aroused  from  deep  abstraction, 
and  went  to  Judy ;  while  Betty  Jo  drew  a  little  way 
apart,  and  stood  looking  out  over  the  river. 

"Give  me  the  manuscript,  Judy,"  said  Brian 
gently,  "and  go  on  to  the  house." 

"You-all  ain't  a-goin'  ter  sling  hit  inter  the  river 
again?"  The  words  were  half -question  and  half- 
assertion. 

"Xo,"  said  Brian.  "I  promise  not  to  throw  it  into 
the  river  again." 

As  Judy  gave  him  the  manuscript,  she  turned  her 
beady  eyes  in  a  stealthy,  oblique  look  toward  Betty 
Jo,  and  whispered :  "You-all  best  tell  ler  'bout  hit. 
I  sure  hate  her  poison-bad;  but  hit's  easy  ter  see 
she'd  sure  know  what  ter  do." 

"Be  careful  that  Auntie  Sue  doesn't  see  you  like  this, 
179 


THE  RE-CKEATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

Judy,"  was  Brian's  only  answer;  and  Judy  started 
off  for  her  much-needed  change  to  dry  clothing. 

When  the  mountain  girl  was  gone,  Brian  stood 
looking  at  the  water-stained  volume  of  manuscript  in 
his  hand.  He  had  no  feeling,  now,  of  more  than  a 
curious  idle  interest  in  this  work  to  which,  during 
the  months  just  past,  he  had  given  so  without  reserve 
the  best  of  himself.  It  was,  he  thought,  strange  how 
he  could  regard  with  such  indifference  a  thing  for 
which  a  few  hours  before  he  would  have  given  his 
life.  Dumbly,  he  was  conscious  of  the  truth  of 
Judy's  words, — that  the  book  was  no  longer  his. 
Judy  was  right— ^-this  book  which  he  had  called  his 
had  always  been,  in  reality,  Auntie  Sue's.  So  the 
matter  of  his  work,  at  least  so  far  as  he  had  to  do 
with  it,  was  settled — definitely  and  finally  settled. 

But  what  of  himself?  What  was  to  become  of 
him  ?  Of  one  thing  only  he  was  certain  about  him 
self  ; — he  never  could  face  Auntie  Sue  again.  Know 
ing,  now,  what  he  had  done,  and  knowing  that  she 
knew ; — that  all  the  time  she  was  nursing  him  back  to 
health,  all  the  time  she  had  been  giving  him  the  in 
spiration  and  strength  and  peace  of  her  gentle,  loving 
companionship,  in  the  safe  and  quiet  harbor  of  her 

180 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

little  house  by  the  river,  she  had  known  that  it  was 
he  who  had — 

A  clear,  matter-of-fact,  but  gentle,  voice  inter 
rupted  his  bitter  thoughts:  "Is  it  so  very  badly 
damaged,  Mr.  Burns  ?" 

He  had  forgotten  Betty  Jo,  who  now  stood  close 
beside  him. 

"Let  me  see  ?"  She  held  out  her  hand  as  he  turned 
slowly  to  face  her. 

Without  a  word,  he  gave  her  the  manuscript. 

Very  businesslike  and  practical,  but  with  an  un 
derlying  feeling  of  tenderness  that  was  her  most  com 
pelling  charm,  Betty  Jo  examined  the  water-stained 
volume. 

"Why,  no/'  she  announced  cheerfully;  "it  isn't 
really  hurt  much.  You  see,  the  sheets  being  tied  to 
gether  so  tightly,  the  water  didn't  get  all  the  way 
through.  The  covers  and  the  first  and  last  pages  are 
pretty  wet,  and  the  edges  of  the  rest  are  rather  damp. 
It'll  be  smudged  somewhat,  but  I  don't  believe  there 
is  a  single  word  that  can't  be  made  out.  It  is  lucky 
it  didn't  prolong  its  bath,  though,  isn't  it?  All  we 
need  to  do,  now,  is  to  put  it  in  the  sun  to  dry  for  a 
few  minutes." 

181 


THE  KE-CKEATION  OF  BKIAN  KENT 

Selecting  a  sunny  spot  near  by,  she  arranged  the 
volume  against  a  stone  and  deftly  separated  the  pages 
so  that  the  air  could  circulate  more  freely  between 
them ;  and  one  would  have  said,  from  her  manner  of 
ready  assurance,  that  she  had  learned  from  long  ex 
perience  exactly  how  to  dry  a  manuscript  that  had 
been  thrown  in  the  river  and  rescued  just  in  the  nick 
of  time.  That  was  Betty  Jo's  way.  She  always  did 
everything  without  hesitation, — just  as  though  she 
had  spent  the  twenty-three  years  of  her  life  doing 
exactly  that  particular  thing. 

Kneeling  over  the  manuscript,  and  gently  moving 
the  wet  sheets,  she  said,  without  looking  up:  "Do 
you  always  bath  your  manuscripts  like  this  before 
you  turn  them  over  to  your  stenographer  to  type, 
Mr.  Bums?" 

In  spite  of  his  troubled  state  of  mind,  Brian 
smiled. 

The  clear,  matter-of-fact  voice  went  on,  while  the 
competent  hands  moved  the  drying  page3.  "You 
see,  I  never  worked  for  an  author  before.  I  suspect 
I  have  a  lot  to  learn." 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  a  Betty  Jo  smile  that 


182 


THE  RE-CREATIOX  OF  BRIAX  KENT 

went  straight  to  his  heart,  as  Betty  Jo's  smiles  had  a 
curious  way  of  doing. 

"I  hope  you  will  he  very  patient  with  me,  ^Ir. 
Burns.  You  will,  won't  you  ?  There  is  no  real 
danger  of  your  throwing  me  in  the  river  when  the 
'artistic  temperament'  possesses  you,  is  there  ?'' 

It  was  no  use.  ^Yhen  Betty  Jo  set  out  to  make  a 
man  talk,  that  man  talked.  Brian  yielded  not  un 
gracefully  :  "I  owe  you  an  apology,  Miss  TVilliams," 
he  said. 

"Indeed,  no,"  Betty  Jo  returned,  giving  her  at 
tention  to  the  manuscript  again.  "It  is  easy  to  see 
that  you  are  terribly  upset  about  something;  and 
everybody  is  so  accustomed  to  being  upset  in  one  way 
or  another  that  apologies  for  upsetments  are  quite  an 
unnecessary  bother,  aren't  they  ?" 

That  was  another  interestingly  curious  thing  about 
Betty  Jo, — the  way  she  could  finish  off  a  character 
istic,  matter-of-fact  statement  with  a  question  which 
had  the  effect  of  making  one  agree  instantly  whether 
one  agreed  or  not. 

Brian  felt  himself  quite  unexpectedly  feeling  that 
'•'upsetments"  were  quite  common,  ordinary,  and  to- 


183 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

be-expected  events  in  one's  life.  "But  I  am  really  in 
very  serious  trouble,  Miss  Williams,"  he  said  in  a 
way  that  sounded  oddly  to  Brian  himself,  as  though 
he  were  trying  to  convince  himself  that  his  trouble 
really  was  serious. 

Betty  Jo  rose  to  her  feet,  and  looked  straight  at 
him,  and  there  was  no  mistaking  the  genuineness  of 
the  interest  expressed  in  those  big  gray  eyes. 

"Oh,  are  you?  Is  it  really  so  serious?  I  am  so 
sorry.  But  don't  you  think  you  better  tell  me  about 
it,  Mr.  Burns  ?  If  I  am  to  work  for  you,  I  may  just 
as  well  begin  right  here,  don't  you  think  ?" 

There  it  was  again, — that  trick-question.  Brian 
felt  himself  agreeing  in  spite  of  himself,  though  how 
he  was  to  explain  his  painful  situation  to  this  young 
woman  whom,  until  a  few  minutes  before,  he  had 
never  even  seen,  he  did  not  know.  He  answered 
cautiously,  speaking  half  to  himself :  "That  is  what 
Judy  said." 

Betty  Jo  did  not  understand,  and  made  no  pre 
tense, — she  never  made  a  pretense  of  anything. 
"What  did  Judy  say?"  she  asked. 

"That  I  had  better  tell  you  about  it,"  he  answered. 


184 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

And  the  matter-of-fact  Betty  Jo  returned :  " Judy 
seems  to  be  a  very  particular  and  common-sensing 
sort  of  Judy,  doesn't  she  ?" 

And  Brian  realized  all  at  once  that  Judy  was  ex 
actly  what  Betty  Jo  said. 

"But, — I — I — don't  see  how  I  can  tell  you,  Miss 
Williams." 

"Why  ?"  laughed  Betty  Jo.  "It  is  perfectly  simple, 
Mr.  Burns.  Here,  now,  I'll  show  you :  You  are  to 
sit  down  there  on  that  nice  comfortable  rock, — that  is 
your  big  office-chair,  you  know, — and  I'll  sit  right 
here  on  this  rock, — which  is  my  little  stenography- 
chair, — and  you  will  just  explain  the  serious  busi 
ness  proposition  to  me  with  careful  attention  to  de 
tails.  I  must  tell  you  that  'detailing'  is  one  of  my 
strong  points,  so  don't  spare  me.  I  really  should 
have  my  notebook,  shouldn't  I  ?" 

Again,  in  spite  of  himself,  Brian  smiled ;  also,  be 
fore  he  was  aware,  they  were  both  seated  as  Betty  Jo 
had  directed. 

"But  this  is  not  a  business  matter,  Miss  Williams," 
he  managed  to  protest  half-heartedly. 

Betty   Jo  was  looking  at  her  watch  in  a  most 


185 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

matter-of-fact  manner,  and  she  answered  in  a  most 
matter-of-fact  voice:  "Everything  is  more  or  less  a 
business  matter,  isn't  it,  Mr.  Burns  ?" 

And  Brian,  if  he  had  answered,  would  have  agreed. 

Betty  Jo  slipped  her  watch  back  into  her  pocket, 
and  continued :  "You  will  have  plenty  of  time  before 
that  man  with  my  trunk  and  things  can  get  away 
'round  over  Schoolhouse  Hill  and  down  again  to 
Auntie  Sue's.  He  will  be  obliged  to  stop  at  neigh 
bor  Tom's,  and  tell  them  all  about  me,  of  course.  We 
mustn't  let  him  beat  us  to  the  house,  though ;  so,  per 
haps,  you  better  begin,  don't  you  think  ?" 

That  "don't-you-think  ?"  so  characteristic  of  Betty 
Jo,  did  its  work,  as  usual ;  and  so,  almost  before 
Brian  Kent  realized  what  he  was  doing,  it  had  been 
decided  for  him  that  to  follow  Judy's  advice  was  the 
best  possible  thing  he  could  do,  and  he  was  relating 
his  whole  wretched  experience  to  this  young  woman, 
about  whom  he  knew  nothing  except  that  she  was  a 
niece  of  an  old  pupil  of  Auntie  Sue's,  and  that  she 
had  just  finished  a  course  in  a  business  college  in 
Cincinnati. 

At  several  points  in  his  story  Betty  Jo  asked 
straightforward  questions,  or  made  short,  matter-of- 

186 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

fact  comments ;  but,  always  with  her  businesslike  air 
of  competent  interest.  Indeed,  she  managed  to  treat 
the  situation  as  being  wholly  impersonal ;  while  at  the 
same  time  the  man  was  never  for  a  moment  made 
to  feel  that  she  was  lacking  in  sincere  and  genuine 
sympathy.  Only  when  he  told  her  that  his  name  was 
Brian  Kent,  and  mentioned  the  Empire  Consolidated 
Savings  Bank,  did  she  for  the  moment  betray  excited 
surprise.  When  she  saw  that  he  had  noticed,  she  said 
quickly:  "I  read  of  the  affair  in  the  papers,  of 
course." 

Auntie  Sue  had  indeed  taken  a  big  chance  when  she 
decided  for  Betty  Jo  to  come  to  help  Brian  with  his 
book.  But  Auntie  Sue  had  taken  no  chance  on  Betty 
Jo  herself.  Perhaps  it  was,  in  fact,  the  dear  old 
teacher's  certainty  about  Betty  Jo  herself  that  had  led 
her  to  accept  the  risk  of  sending  for  the  niece  of  her 
friend  and  pupil  under  such  a  peculiar  combination 
of  circumstances. 

When  Brian  had  finished  his  story  with  the  ac 
count  of  his  discovery  of  the  distressing  fact  that  he 
had  robbed  Auntie  Sue  and  that  she  knew  he  had 
robbed  her,  Betty  Jo  said :  "It  is  really  a  sad  story, 
isn't  it,  Mr.  Burns  ?  But,  oh,  isn't  Auntie  Sue  won- 

187 


THE  KE-CREATION  OF  BKIA1ST  KENT 

derful!  Was  there  ever  such  another  woman  in  the 
world!  Don't  you  love  her?  And  couldn't  you  do 
anything — anything  that  would  make  her  happy  ? 
After  all,  when  you  think  of  Auntie  Sue,  and  how 
wonderful  she  has  been,  this  whole  thing  isn't  so  bad, 
is  it?" 

"Why,  I — I — don't  think  I  see  what  you  mean," 
Brian  replied,  puzzled  by  the  unexpected  turn  she 
had  given  to  the  situation,  yet  convinced  by  that  little 
question  with  which  she  finished  that  she  was  some 
how  right. 

"Well,  I  mean  wouldn't  you  love  to  do  for  some 
one  what  Auntie  Sue  has  done  for  you  ?  I  should  if 
I  were  only  big  enough  and  good  enough.  It  seems 
to  me  it  would  make  one  the  happiest  and  con- 
tentedest  and  peacefulest  person  in  the  world, 
wouldn't  it  ?" 

Brian  did  not  answer.  While  he  felt  himself 
agreeing  with  Betty  Jo's  view,  he  was  wondering  at 
himself  that  he  could  discuss  the  matter  so  calmly. 
It  was  not  that  he  no  longer  felt  deeply  the  shame 
of  this  terrible  thing  that  he  had  done;  it  was  not 
that  he  had  ceased  to  suffer  the  torment  that  had 
caused  his  emotional  madness,  which  had  found  ex- 

188 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN"  KENT 

pression  in  his  attempt  to  destroy  his  manuscript; 
it  was  only  that  this  young  woman  somehow  made  it 
possible  for  him  to  retain  his  self-control,  and  instead 
of  venting  his  emotions  in  violent  and  wholly  useless 
expressions  of  regret,  and  self-condemnation,  and  in 
irrational,  temperamental  action,  to  consider  coolly 
and  sanely  what  he  must  do.  He  was  strangely  pos 
sessed,  too,  of  an  instinctive  certainty  that  Betty  Jo 
knew  exactly  how  he  felt  and  exactly  what  she  was 
doing. 

While  he  was  thinking  these  things,  or,  rather,  feel 
ing  them,  Betty  Jo  went  to  see  how  the  manuscript 
was  drying.  She  returned  to  her  seat  on  the  rock 
presently,  saying:  "It  is  doing  very  nicely, — almost 
dry.  I  think  it  will  be  done  pretty  soon.  In  the 
meantime,  what  are  we  going  to  do  about  everything  ? 
You  have  thought  of  something  for  you  to  do,  of 
course  ?" 

"I  fear  I  have  felt  rather  more  than  I  have 
thought,"  returned  Brian. 

She  nodded.  "Yes,  I  know;  but  feeling  alone 
never  arrives  anywhere.  An  excess  of  thoughtless 
feeling  is  sheer  emotional  extravagance.  I  sound  like 
a  book,  don't  1 2"  she  laughed.  "It  is  so  just  the 

189 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

same,  Mr.  Burns.  And  now  that  you  have — ah — 
been  properly — not  to  say  gloriously — extravagant  at 
poor  Judy's  expense,  we  had  better  do  a  little  think 
ing,  don't  you  think  ?" 

The  man's  cheeks  reddened  at  her  words ;  but  the 
straightforward,  downright  sincerity  of  those  gray 
eyes,  that  looked  so  frankly  into  his,  held  him  steady ; 
while  the  interrogation  at  the  end  of  her  remark 
carried  its  usual  conviction. 

"There  is  only  one  possible  thing  left  for  me  to  do, 
Miss  Williams,"  he  said  earnestly. 

"And  what  is  that  ?"  A  smile  that  sent  a  glow  of 
courage  to  Brian  Kent's  troubled  heart  accompanied 
the  flat  question. 

"I  can't  face  Auntie  Sue  again,  knowing  what  I 
know  now."  He  spoke  with  passion. 

"Of  course  you  would  expect  to  feel  that  way, 
wouldn't  you?"  came  the  matter-of-fact  answer. 

"The  only  thing  I  can  do,"  he  continued,  "is  to 
give  myself  up,  and  go  to  the  penitentiary;  arrang 
ing,  somehow,  to  do  it  in  such  a  way  that  the  reward 
will  go  to  Auntie  Sue.  God  knows  she  deserves  it ! 
Sheriff  Knox  would  help  me  fix  that  part,  I  am  sure." 

For  a  moment  there  was  a  suspicious  moisture  in 

390 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

Betty  Jo's  gray  eyes.  Then  she  said,  "And  you 
would  really  go  to  prison  for  Auntie  Sue  ?" 

"It  is  the  least  I  can  do  for  her  now,"  he  returned. 

And  Betty  Jo  must  have  felt  the  sincerity  of  his 
purpose,  foi  she  said,  softly:  "I  am  sure  that  it 
would  make  Auntie  Sue  very  happy  to  know  that  you 
would  do  that ;  and" — she  added — "I  know  that  you 
could  not  possibly  make  her  more  unhappy  and  mis 
erable  than  by  doing  it,  could  you  ?" 

Again  she  had  given  an  unexpected  turn  to  the  sub 
ject  with  the  usual  convincing  question-mark. 

"'But  what  can  I  do  ?"  he  demanded,  letting  himself 
go  a  little. 

Betty  Jo  steadied  him  with:  "Well,  suppose  you 
listen  while  I  consider  ?  Did  I  tell  you  that  'con 
sidering'  was  another  of  my  strong  points,  Mr. 
Burns  ?  "Well,  it  is.  You  may  consider  me  while  I 
consider,  if  you  please. 

"The  first  thing  is,  that  you  must  make  Auntie 
Sue  happy, — as  happy  as  you  possibly  can  do  at  any 
cost.  The  second  thing  is,  that  you  must  pay  her 
back  that  money,  every  penny  of  it.  Now,  it 
wouldn't  make  her  happy  for  you  to  go  to  prison, 
and  the  reward  wouldn't  pay  back  all  the  money ;  and 

191 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

if  you  were  in  prison,  you  never  could  pay  the  rest ; 
besides,  if  you  were  wasting  your  time  in  prison,  she 
would  just  die  of  miser ableness,  and  she  wouldn't 
touch  a  penny  of  that  reward-money — not  if  she  was 
to  die  for  want  of  it.  So  that  settles  that,  doesn't  it  ?" 

And  Brian  was  forced  to  admit  that,  as  Betty  Jo 
put  it,  it  did. 

"Very  well,  let  us  consider  some  more:  Dear 
Auntie  Sue  has  been  wonderfully,  gloriously  happy 
in  doing  what  she  has  for  you  this  past  winter, — 
meaning  your  book  and  all.  I  can  see  that  she  must 
have  been.  ISTo  one  could  help  being  happy  doing 
such  a  thing  as  that.  So  you  just  simply  can't  spoil 
it  all,  now,  by  letting  her  know  that  you  know  what 
you  know." 

Brian  started  to  speak,  but  she  checked  him  with : 
aPlease,  Mr.  Burns,  I  must  not  be  interrupted  when 
I  am  considering.  Next  to  the  prison, — which  we 
have  agreed  won't  do  at  all, — you  could  do  nothing 
that  would  make  Auntie  Sue  more  unhappy  than  to 
spoil  the  happiness  she  has  in  your  not  knowing  what 
you  have  done  to  her.  That  is  very  clear,  isn't  it? 
And  think  of  her  miserableness  if,  after  all  these 
weeks  of  happy  anticipation,  your  book  should  never 

192 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

be  published.  No,  no,  no ;  you  can't  rob  Auntie  Sue 
of  her  happiness  in  you  just  because  you  stole  her 
money,  can  you  ?" 

And  Brian  knew  in  his  heart  that  she  was  right. 

"So,  you  see,"  Betty  Jo  continued,  "the  only 
possible  way  to  do  is  to  go  right  along  just  as  if 
nothing  had  happened.  And  there  is  this  final  con 
sideration, — which  must  be  a  dark  secret  between 
you  and  me, — when  the  book  is  finished,  you  must 
see  to  it  that  every  penny  that  comes  from  it  goes  to 
Auntie  Sue  until  she  is  paid  back  all  that  she  lost 
through  you.  Now,  isn't  that  pretty  fine  'consider 
ing,'  Mr.  Burns  ?" 

And  Brian  was  convinced  that  it  was.  "But,"  he 
suggested,  "the  book  may  not  earn  anything. 
Nothing  that  I  ever  wrote  before  did." 

"You  never  wrote  one  before  just  like  this,  did 
you?"  came  the  very  matter-of-fact  answer.  "And, 
besides,  if  your  book  never  earns  a  cent,  it  will  do 
Auntie  Sue  a  world  more  good  than  your  going  to 
prison  for  her.  That  would  be  rather  silly,  now  that 
you  think  of  it,  wouldn't  it  ?  And  now  that  we  have 
our  conspiracy  all  nicely  conspired,  we  must  hurry  to 
the  house  before  that  man  arrives  with  my  things." 

193 


THE  KE-CBEATION  OF  BKIAN  KENT 

She  went  for  the  manuscript  as  she  spoke,  "See," 
she  cried,  "it  is  quite  dry,  and  not  a  bit  the  worse  for 
its  temperamental  experience  !"  She  laughed  glee 
fully. 

"But,  Miss  Williams,"  exclaimed  Brian,  "I— I— 
can't  understand  you!  You  don't  seem  to  mind. 
What  I  have  told  you  about  myself  doesn't  seem  to — 
to — make  any  difference  to  you — I  mean  in  your 
attitude  toward  me." 

"Oh,  yes,  it  does,"  she  returned.  "It  makes  me 
very  interested  in  you,  Mr.  Burns." 

"But,  how  can  you  have  any  confidence —  How  can 
you  help  me  with  my  book  now  that  you  know  what 
I  am  ?"  he  persisted,  for  he  was  sincerely  puzzled  by 
her  apparent  indifference  to  the  revelation  he  had 
made  of  his  character. 

"Auntie  Sue," — she  answered, — "just  Auntie  Sue. 
Come, — we  must  go." 

"How  in  the  world  can  I  ever  face  her !"  groaned 
Brian. 

"You  won't  get  the  chance  at  her,  for  awhile,  with 
me  around; — she  will  be  so  busy  with  me  that  she 
won't  notice  anything  wrong  with  you.  So  you  will 
get  accustomed  to  the  conspiracy  feeling  before  you 

194 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

are  even  suspected  of  conspiring.  You  know,  when 
one  has  once  arrived  at  the  state  of  not  feeling  like  a 
liar,  one  can  lie  with  astonishing  success.  Haven't 
you  found  it  so  ?" 

They  laughed  together  over  this  as  they  went  to 
ward  the  house. 

As  they  reached  the  porch,  Betty  Jo  whispered  a 
last  word  of  instruction:  "You  better  find  Judy, 
and  fix  her  the  first  thing; — fix  her  good  and  hard. 
Here  is  Auntie  Sue  now.  Don't  worry  about  her 
noticing  anything  strange  about  you.  I'll  attend  to 
her." 

And  the  next  minute,  Betty  Jo  had  the  dear  old 
lady  in  her  arms. 


195 


CHAPTER  XV. 

A  MATTER  OF  BUSINESS. 

[HE  weeks  that  followed  the  coming  of  Betty 
Jo  to  the  little  log  house  by  the  river  passed 
quickly  for  Brian  Kent.  Perhaps  it  was  the 
peculiar  circumstances  of  their  first  meeting  that 
made  the  man  feel  so  strongly  that  he  had  known  her 
for  many  years,  instead  of  for  only  those  few  short 
weeks.  That  could  easily  have  been  the  reason,  be 
cause  the  young  woman  had  stepped  so  suddenly  into 
his  life  at  a  very  critical  time; — when  his  mental 
faculties  were  so  confused  by  the  turmoil  and  suffer 
ing  of  his  emotional  self  that  the  past  was  to  him,  at 
the  moment,  far  more  real  than  the  present. 

And  Betty  Jo  had  not  merely  come  into  his  life 
casually,  as  a  disinterested  spectator;  but,  by  the 
peculiar  appeal  of  herself,  she  had  led  Brian  to  take 
her  so  into  his  confidence  that  she  had  become  im 
mediately  a  very  real  part  of  the  experience  through 
which  he  was  then  passing,  and  thus  was  identified 


196 


THE  EE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

with  his  past  experience  out  of  which  the  crisis  of  th& 
moment  had  come. 

Agair  Betty  Jo,  in  the  naturalness  of  her  manner 
toward  him,  and  by  her  matter-of-fact,  impersonal 
consideration  of  his  perplexing  situation,  had  brought 
to  his  unsettled  and  chaotic  mind  a  sense  of  stability 
and  order;  and  by  subtly  insinuating  her  own  prac 
tical  decisions  as  to  the  course  he  should  follow,  had 
made  herself  a  very  literal  part  of  his  inner  life.  In 
fact,  Betty  Jo  knew  Brian  Kent  more  intimately  at 
the  close  of  their  first  meeting  than  she  could  have 
known  him  after  years  of  acquaintanceship  under  the 
ordinary  course  of  development. 

Brian's  consciousness  of  this  would  naturally 
cause  him  to  feel  toward  the  young  woman  as  though 
she  had  long  been  a  part  of  his  life.  Still  other 
causes  might  have  contributed  to  the  intimate  com 
panionship  that  so  quickly  became  to  them  both  an 
established  and  taken-for-granted  fact;  but,  the  cir 
cumstances  of  their  first  meeting,  given,  of  course, 
their  peculiar  individualities,  were,  really,  quite 
enough.  The  fact  that  it  was  springtime  might  also 
have  had  something  to  do  with  it. 


197 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

The  morning  after  her  arrival,  Betty  Jo  set  to 
work  typing  the  manuscript.  Brian  went  to  his  work 
on  the  timbered  hillside.  In  the  evenings,  Brian 
worked  over  the  typewitten  pages, — revising,  cor 
recting,  perfecting, — and  then,  as  Betty  Jo  made  the 
final  copy  for  the  printers,  they  went  critically  over 
the  work  together. 

So  the  hours  flew  past  on  busy  wings,  and  the  days 
of  the  springtime  drew  toward  summer.  The  tender 
green  of  the  new-born  leaves  and  grasses  changed  to  a 
stronger,  deeper  tone.  The  air,  which  had  been  so 
filled  with  the  freshness  and  newness  of  bursting  buds 
and  rain-blessed  soil,  and  all  the  quickening  life  of 
tree  and  bush  and  plant,  now  carried  the  perfume  of 
strongly  growing  things, — the  feel  of  maturing  life. 

To  Brian,  the  voices  of  the  river  brought  a  fuller, 
deeper  message,  with  a  subtle  undertone  of  steady 
and  enduring  purpose. 

From  the  beginning,  Betty  Jo  established  for  her 
self  the  habit  of  leaving  her  work  at  the  typewriter 
in  the  afternoons,  and  going  for  a  walk  over  the  hills. 
Quite  incidentally,  at  first,  her  walks  occasionally  led 
her  by  way  of  the  clearing  where  Brian  was  at  work 
with  his  ax,  and  it  followed,  naturally,  that  as  the 

198 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

end  of  the  day  drew  near,  the  two  would  go  together 
down  the  mountain-side  to  the  evening  meal.  But 
long  before  the  book  was  finished,  the  little  after 
noon  visit  and  the  walk  together  at  the  day's  close  had 
become  so  established  as  a  custom  that  they  both  ac 
cepted  it  as  a  part  of  their  day's  life ;  and  to  Brian, 
at  least,  it  was  an  hour  to  which  he  looked  forward  as 
the  most  delightful  hour  of  the  twenty-four.  As  for 
Betty  Jo, — well,  it  was  really  Betty  Jo  who  estab 
lished  the  custom  and  developed  it  to  that  point  where 
it  was  of  such  importance. 

Auntie  Sue  was  too  experienced  from  her  life-long 
study  of  boys  and  girls  not  to  observe  the  deepening 
of  the  friendship  between  the  man  and  the  woman 
whom  she  had  brought  together.  But  if  the  dear  old 
lady  felt  any  twinges  of  an  apprehensive  conscience, 
when  she  saw  the  pair  day  after  day  coming  down  the 
mountain-side  through  the  long  shadows  of  the  late 
afternoon,  she  very  promptly  banished  them,  and, 
quite  consistently,  with  what  Brian  called  her  "River 
philosophy,"  made  no  attempt  to  separate  these  two 
life  currents,  which,  for  the  time  at  least,  seemed  to 
be  merging  into  one. 

And  often,  as  the  three  sat  together  on  the  porch 
199 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

after  supper  to  watch  the  sunsets,  or  later  in  the 
evening  as  Auntie  Sue  sat  with  her  sewing  while 
they  were  busy  with  their  work  and  unobserving,  the 
dear  old  lady  would  look  at  them  with  a  little  smile  of 
tender  meaning,  and  into  the  gentle  eyes  would  come 
that  far-away  look  that  was  born  of  the  memories 
that  had  so  sweetened  the  long  years  of  her  life,  and 
of  the  hope  and  dream  of  a  joy  unspeakable  that 
awaited  her  beyond  the  sunset  of  her  day. 

In  her  long  letter  to  Betty  Jo,  asking  the  girl  to 
come,  Auntie  Sue  had  told  the  young  woman  the 
main  facts  of  Brian's  history  as  she  knew  them, 
omitting  only  the  man's  true  name  and  the  name  of 
the  bank.  She  had  even  mentioned  her  conviction 
that  there  had  been  a  woman  in  his  trouble.  But 
Auntie  Sue  had  not  mentioned  in  her  letter  the  money 
she  had  lost;  nor  did  she  now  know  that  Brian  had 
himself  told  Betty  Jo  at  the  time  of  their  first 
meeting. 

On  the  day  that  Betty  Jo  typed  the  last  page,  and 
the  book  was  ready  for  the  printers,  the  young  woman 
went  earlier  than  usual  to  the  clearing  where  Brian 
was  at  work.  The  sound  of  his  ax  reached  her  while 


200 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

she  was  yet  some  distance  away,  and  guided  her  to 
the  spot  where  he  was  chopping  a  big  white  oak. 

Brian,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  widening  cut  at 
the  base  of  the  tree,  did  not  notice  the  girl,  who  stood 
watching  him.  She  was  smiling  to  herself  at  his 
ignorance  of  her  presence  and  in  anticipation  of  the 
moment  when  he  should  discover  her,  and  there  was 
in  her  eyes  a  look  of  wholesome  womanly  admiration 
for  the  man  who  swung  his  ax  with  such  easy 
strength.  In  truth,  Brian  Kent  at  his  woodman's 
labor  made  a  picture  not  at  all  unattractive. 

Swiftly,  the  cut  in  the  tree-trunk  widened  as  the 
ax  bit  deeply  at  every  skilful  stroke,  and  the  chips 
flew  about  the  chopper's  feet.  The  acrid  odor  of  the 
freshly  cut  oak  mingled  with  the  woodland  perfume. 
The  sun  warmly  flooded  the  clearing  with  its  golden 
light,  and,  splashing  through  the  openings  in  the 
forest  foliage,  formed  pools  of  yellow  beauty  amid 
the  dark,  rich  green  of  the  shadowy  undergrowth. 
The  air  was  filled  with  the  sense  of  life,  vital  and 
real,  and  strong  and  beautiful. 

And  the  young  woman,  as  she  stood  smiling  there, 
was  keenly  conscious  of  it  all.  Most  of  ail,  perhaps 


201 


THE  EE-CREATIO^  OF  BKIAN  KENT 

Betty  Jo  was  conscious  of  the  man,  who  worked  with 
such  vigor  at  his  manly  task. 

Slowly,  accurately,  the  bright  ax  sank  deeper  and 
deeper  into  the  heart  of  the  tree.  The  chips  in 
creased  in  scattered  profusion.  And  then,  as  Betty 
Jo  watched,  the  swinging  ax  cut  through  the  last 
fibre  of  the  tree's  strength,  and  the  leafy  top  swayed 
gently  toward  its  fall.  Almost  imperceptibly,  at 
first,  it  moved  while  Betty  Jo  watched  breathlessly. 
Brian  swung  his  ax  with  increasing  vigor,  now,  while 
the  wood,  still  remaining,  cracked  and  snapped  as  the 
weight  of  the  tree  completed  the  work  of  the  chopper. 
Faster  and  faster  the  towering  mass  of  foliage  swung 
in  a  wide  graceful  arc  toward  the  ground.  The  man 
with  the  ax  stepped  back,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  falling 
tree  as,  with  swiftly  increasing  momentum,  its  great 
weight  swept  swiftly  downward  to  its  crashing  end. 

Betty  Jo  clapped  her  hands  in  triumph;  and 
Brian,  turning,  saw  her  standing  there.  His  face 
was  flushed  and  glistening  with  perspiration;  hie 
broad  chest  heaved  with  the  deep  breathing  gained  by 
his  exertior  ,  and  his  eyes  shone  with  the  gladness  of 
her  presence. 


202 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

"You  are  early,  to-day!"  he  cried.  "Have  you 
finished  ?  Is  it  actually  completed  ?" 

"All  finished,"  she  returned;  and,  going  to  the 
fallen  tree,  she  put  her  hands  curiously  on  the  trunk, 
which  lay  a  little  higher  than  her  waist.  "Help  ine 
up,"  she  commanded. 

Brian  set  his  ax  against  the  stump,  and,  laughingly, 
lifted  her  to  the  seat  she  desired.  Then  he  stood 
watching  her  face  as  she  surveyed  the  tangled  mass 
of  branches. 

"It  looks  so  strange  from  here,  doesn't  it  ?"  she 
said. 

"Yes;  and  I  confess  I  don't  like  to  see  it  that 
way;"  he  returned.  "I  wish  they  didn't  have  to  be 
cut.  I  feel  like  a  murderer, — every  one  I  fall." 

She  looked  down  into  his  eyes,  as  she  returned: 
"I  know  you  must.  You  would,  of  course.  But, 
after  all,  it  has  to  be,  and  I  don't  suppose  the  tree 
minds  so  much,  do  you  ?" 

"No;  I  don't  suppose  it  feels  it  much."  He 
laughed,  and,  throwing  aside  his  hat,  he  ran  his 
fingers  through  his  tumbled  hair  for  all  the  world 
like  a  schoolboy  confused  by  being  caught  in  some 


203 


THE  KE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

sentimental  situation  which  he  finds  not  only  em 
barrassing,  but  puzzling  as  well. 

"I  like  you  for  feeling  that  way  about  it,  though," 
Betty  Jo  confessed  with  characteristic  frankness. 
"And  I  am  sure  it  must  be  a  very  good  thing  for  the 
world  that  every  one  is  not  so  intensely  practical  that 
they  can  chop  down  trees  without  a  pang.  And  that 
reminds  me:  Speaking  of  the  practical,  now  that 
the  book  is  finished,  what  are  we  going  to  do  with  it  ?" 

"Send  it  to  some  publisher,  I  suppose,"  answered 
Brian,  soberly;  "and  then,  when  they  have  returned 
it,  send  it  to  some  other  publisher." 

"Have  you  any  particular  publisher  to  whom  you 
will  send  it  first?"  she  asked. 

"They  are  all  alike,  so  far  as  my  experience  goes," 
he  returned. 

"I  suppose  it  would  be  best  if  you  could  take  your 
book  East,  and  interview  the  publishers  personally, 
don't  you  think  ?" 

Brian  shook  his  head :  "I  am  not  sure  that  it 
would  make  any  difference,  and,  in  any  case,  T 
couldn't  do  it." 

"I  know,"  said  Betty  Jo,  "and  that  is  what  I 
wanted  to  get  at  Why  don't  you  appoint  me  your 

204 


THE  KE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

agent,  and  let  me  take  your  book  East,  and  make  the 
publishing  arrangements  for  you  ?" 

Brian  looked  at  her  with  such  delighted  surprise 
that  Betty  Jo  smiled  back  at  him  well  pleased. 

"Would  you  really  do  it  ?"  he  demanded,  as  though 
he  feared  she  was  jesting. 

"You  are  sure  that  you  don't  mean  'could  I  do 
it'  ?" — she  returned, — "sure  you  could  trust  me  ?" 

To  which  Brian  answered  enthusiastically :  "You 
could  do  anything!  If  you  undertake  the  job  of 
landing  a  publisher  for  my  stuff,  it  is  as  good  as 
done." 

"Thank  you,"  she  said,  jumping  down  from  the 
tree-trunk.  "Now  that  we  have  settled  it,  let  us  go 
to  the  house  and  tell  Auntie  Sue,  and  I  will  start  in 
the  morning." 

As  they  went  down  the  hill,  they  discussed  the 
matter  further,  and,  later,  at  the  house,  Brian  took 
a  moment,  when  Auntie  Sue  was  in  her  room,  to 
hand  an  envelope  to  his  assistant  "Your  salary," 
he  said,  hurriedly,  "and  expense  money  for  the  trip." 

"Oh!"  Betty  Jo's  exclamation  was  one  of  sur 
prise.  Then  she  said,  in  her  most  matter-of-fact, 
businesslike  tone:  "Thank  you.  I  will  render  a 

205 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

statement  of  my  account,  but — "  For  once,  Betty 
Jo  seemed  at  a  loss  for  words.  "You  don't  mind  if  I 
ask— is — is  this  money — ?" 

Brian's  face  was  a  study.  "Yes/'  he  said,  "it  is 
really  Auntie  Sue's  money;  but  it  is  all  I  have,  and 
I  can't  return  it  to  her — without  her  knowing — so 
I—" 

Betty  Jo  interrupted:  "I  understand.  It  is  all 
we  can  do, — forgive  me?" 

Brian  Kent  did  not  know  that  Betty  Jo,  a  few 
minutes  later,  buried  the  envelope  he  had  given  her 
deep  in  the  bottom  of  her  trunk  without  even  open 
ing  it. 

The  next  day,  Brian  drove  to  Thompsonville  with 
Betty  Jo,  who  took  the  noon  train  for  the  East. 

The  two  were  rather  quiet  as  "Old  Prince"  jogged 
soberly  along  the  beautiful  river  road.  Only  now  and 
then  did  they  exchange  a  few  words  of  the  most  com 
monplace  observation. 

They  were  within  sight  of  the  little  Ozark  settle 
ment  when  Brian  said,  earnestly:  "I  wish  I  could 
tell  you,  Miss  Williams,  just  what  your  coming  to 
help  me  with  this  work  has  meant  to  me." 

"It  has  meant  a  great  deal  to  me,  too,  Mr.  Burns," 

206 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

she  returned.  Then  she  added  quickly:  "I  suppose 
the  first  real  work  one  does  after  finishing  school 
always  means  more  than  any  position  following  could 
possibly  mean,  don't  you  think  ?  Just  like  your  book. 
No  matter  how  many  you  may  write  in  the  future, 
this  will  always  mean  more  to  you  than  any  one  of 
them." 

"Yes,"  he  said  slowly.  "This  book  will  always 
mean  more  to  me  than  all  the  others  I  may  write." 

For  a  moment  their  eyes  met  with  unwavering 
frankness.  Then  Betty  Jo  turned  her  face  away, 
and  Brian  stiffened  his  shoulders,  and  sat  a  little 
straighter  in  the  seat  beside  her.  That  was  all. 

Very  brave  they  were  at  the  depot  purchasing 
Betty  Jo's  ticket  and  checking  her  trunk.  With 
brave  commonplaces  they  said  good-bye  when  the 
train  pulled  in.  Bravely  she  waved  at  him  from  the 
open  window  of  the  coach.  And  bravely  Brian  stood 
there  watching  until  the  trail  rounded  the  curve  and 
disappeared  from  sight  between  the  hills. 

The  world  through  which  Brian  Kent  drove  that 
afternoon  on  his  way  back  to  Auntie  Sue  and  Judy  in 
the  little  log  house  by  the  river  was  a  very  dull  and 
uninteresting  world  indeed.  All  its  brightness  and 

207 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

its  beauty  seemed  suddenly  to  have  vanished.  And  as 
"Old  Prince"  jogged  patiently  on  his  way,  sleepily 
content  with  thoughts  of  his  evening  meal  of  hay  and 
grain,  the  man's  mind  was  disturbed  with  thoughts 
which  he  dared  not  own  even  to  his  innermost  self. 

"Circumstances  to  a  man,"  Auntie  Sue  had  said, 
"always  meant  a  woman."  And  Brian  Kent,  while 
he  never  under  any  pressure  would  have  admitted  it, 
knew  within  his  deepest  self  that  it  was  a  woman  who 
had  set  him  adrift  on  the  dark  river  that  dreadful 
night  when  he  had  cursed  the  world  which  he  thought 
he  was  leaving  forever. 

"Circumstances"  in  the  person  of  Auntie  Sue  had 
saved  him  from  destruction,  and,  in  the  little  log 
house  by  the  river,  had  brought  about  his  Re- Cre 
ation. 

And  then,  when  that  revelation  of  his  crime  to 
ward  Auntie  Sue  had  come,  and  the  labor  of  months, 
with  all  that  it  implied  of  the  enduring  salvation  of 
himself  and  the  happiness  of  Auntie  Sue,  hung  wav 
ering  in  the  balance,  it  was  the  "Circumstances"  of 
Betty  Jo's  coming  that  had  set  him  in  the  right  cur 
rent  of  action  again. 

What  waited  for  him  around  the  next  bend  in  the 
208 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

river,  Brian  wondered, — calm  and  peaceful  waters,, 
with  gently  flowing  currents,  or  the  wild  tumult  of 
dangerous  rapids  wherein  he  would  be  forced  to  fight 
for  his  very  existence?  Would  Betty  Jo  succeed  as 
his  agent  to  the  publishers?  If  she  did  succeed  in 
finding  a  publisher  to  accept  his  book,  would  the  read 
ing  public  receive  his  message  ?  And  if  that  followed, 
what  then  ?  When  Betty  Jo's  mission  in  the  East  was 
accomplished,  she  was  to  return  to  Auntie  Sue  for  the 
summer.  Then —  ? 

"Old  Prince,"  of  his  own  accord,  was  turning  in 
at  the  gate,  and  Brian  awoke  from  his  abstraction  to 
to  see  Auntie  Sue  and  Judy  waiting  for  him. 

All  during  the  evening  meal  and  while  he  sat  with 
Auntie  Sue  on  the  porch  overlooking  the  river,  as 
their  custom  was,  Brian  was  preoccupied  and  silent ; 
while  his  companion,  with  the  wisdom  of  her  seventy 
years,  did  not  force  the  conversation. 

It  was  the  time  of  the  full  moon,  and  when  Auntie 
Sue  at  last  bade  him  good-night,  Brian,  saying  that 
the  evening  was  too  lovely  to  waste  in  sleep,  re 
mained  on  the  porch.  For  an  hour,  perhaps,  he  sat 
there  alone ;  but  his  thoughts  were  not  on  the  beauties 
of  the  scene  that  lay  before  him  in  all  its  dreamy 

209 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

charm  of  shadowy  hills  and  moonlit  river.  He  had 
no  ear  for  the  soft  voices  of  the  night.  The  gentle 
breeze  carried  to  him  the  low,  deep-toned  roar  of  the 
crashing  waters  at  Elbow  Rock ;  but  he  did  not  hear. 
Moved  at  last  by  a  feeling  of  restless  longing,  and  the 
certainty  that  only  a  sleepless  bed  awaited  him  in  the 
house,  he  left  the  porch  to  stroll  along  the  bank  of 
the  river. 


210 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

THE  SECRET  OF  AUNTIE  SUE'S  LIFE. 

RIAX  KENT,  strolling  along  the  bank  of  the 
river  in  the  moonlight,  and  preoccupied  with 
thoughts  that  were,  at  the  last,  more  dreams 
than  thoughts,  was  not  far  from  the  house  when  a 
sound  from  behind  some  near-by  bushes  broke  in  upon 
his  reveries.  A  moment,  he  listened.  Then  telling 
himself  that  it  was  some  prowling  animal,  or  perhaps, 
a  bird  that  his  presence  had  disturbed,  he  went  on. 
But  he  had  gone  only  a  few  feet  farther  when  he  was 
conscious  of  something  stealthily  following  him. 
Stepping  behind  the  trunk  of  a  tree,  he  waited, 
watching.  Then  he  saw  a  form  moving  toward  him 
through  the  shadows  of  the  bushes.  Another  moment, 
and  the  form  left  the  concealing  shadow,  and,  in  the 
bright  moonlight,  he  recognized  Judy. 

At  first,  the  man's  feeling  was  that  of  annoyance. 
He  did  not  wish  to  be  disturbed  at  such  a  time  by  the 
presence  of  the  mountain  girl.  But  his  habitual 
gentleness  toward  poor  Judy,  together  with  a  very 

211 


THE  KE-CKEATION  OF  EKIAN  KENT 

natural  curiosity  as  to  why  she  was  following  him  at 
that  time  of  the  night,  when  he  had  supposed  her  in 
bed  and  asleep,  led  him  to  greet  her  kindly  as  he 
came  from  behind  the  tree:  "Well,  Judy,  are  you, 
too,  out  enjoying  the  moonlight  ?" 

The  girl  stopped  suddenly  and  half-turned  as  if 
to  run ;  but,  at  his  words,  stood  still. 

"What  is  it,  Judy?"  he  asked,  going  to  her. 
"What  is  the  matter  ?" 

"There's  a  heap  the  matter!"  she  answered,  re 
garding  him  with  that  sly  oblique  look ;  while  Brian 
noticed  a  feeling  of  intense  excitement  in  her  voice. 
"I  don't  know  what  you-all  are  a-goin'  ter  think  of 
me,  but  I'm  bound  ter  tell  you  just  the  same, — seems 
like  I  got  ter, — even  if  you-all  was  ter  lick  me  for 
hit  like  pap  used  ter." 

"Why,  Judy,  dear,"  the  puzzled  man  returned, 
soothingly,  "you  know  I  would  never  strike  you,  no 
matter  what  you  did.  Come,  sit  down  here  on  this 
log,  and  tell  me  about  whatever  it  is  that  troubles 
you ;  then  you  can  go  back  to  sleep  again." 

"I  ain't  a-wantin'  ter  set  down.  I  ain't  been 
asleep.  Hit  seems  like  I  can't  never  sleep  no  more." 
She  wrung  her  hands  and  turned  her  poor  twisted 

212 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

body  about  nervously;  then  demanded  with  startling 
abruptness :  "When  do  you-all  'low  she'll  git  back  ?" 

The  wondering  Brian  did  not  at  first  catch  her 
meaning,  and  she  continued,  with  an  impatient  jerk 
of  her  head :  "Hit's  that  there  gal  with  the  no-'count 
name,  Betty  Jo,  I'm  a-talkin'  'bout." 

"Oh,  you  mean  Miss  Williams,"  Brian  returned. 
"Why,  I  suppose  she  will  be  back  in  two  or  three 
weeks,  or  a  month,  perhaps;  I  don't  know  exactly, 
Judy.  Why?" 

"  'Cause  I'm  a-tellin'  you-all  not  ter  let  her  come 
back  here  ever,"  came  the  startling  answer,  in  a  voice 
that  was  filled  with  menacing  anger.  Then,  before 
Brian  could  find  a  word  to  reply,  the  mountain  girl 
continued,  with  increasing  excitement:  "You-all 
dassn't  let  her  come  back  here,  nohow,  'cause,  if  you 
do,  I'll  hurt  her,  sure.  You-all  have  been  a-thinkm' 
as  how  I  was  plumb  blind,  I  reckon ;  but  I  seen  you, 
— every  evenin',  when  she'd  pretend  ter  just  go  for  a 
walk  an'  then'd  make  straight  for  the  clearin'  where 
you  was  a-choppin',  an'  then  you'd  quit,  an'  set  with 
her  up  there  on  the  hill.  Youuns  never  knowed  I 
was  a-watchin'  from  the  bresh  all  the  time,  did  you  ? 
Well,  I  was;  an*  when  youuns'd  walk  down  ter  the 

213 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

house,  so  slow  like  an'  close  together,  I'd  sneak 
ahead,  an?  beat  you  home;  but  all  the  time  I  was  a- 
seein'  you,  an'  youuns  never  knowed,  'cause  youuns 
just  naturally  couldn't  see  nor  hear  nothin'  but  each 
other.  Don't  you-all  'low  as  how  I'd  know  by  the 
way  you  looked  at  her,  while  youuns  was  a-fixin' 
that  there  book,  every  night,  what  you-all  was  a- 
thinkin'  'bout  her  ?  My  God-A'mighty !  hit  was  just 
as  plain  ter  me  as  if  you  was  a-sayin'  hit  right  out 
loud  all  the  time, — a  heap  plainer  hit  was  than  if 
you'd  done  writ'  hit  down  in  your  book.  I  can't 
make  out  ter  read  print  much,  nohow,  like  youuns 
kin ;  but  I  sure  kin  see  what  I  see.  I — " 

"Judy!  Judy!"  Brian  broke  the  stream  of  the 
excited  girl's  talk.  "What  in  the  world  are  you 
saying  ?  What  do  you  mean,  child  ?" 

"You-all  knows  dad  burned  well  what  I'm  a-mean- 
in' !"  she  retorted,  with  increasing  anger.  "I'm  a- 
meanin'  that  you-all  are  plumb  lovin'  that  there  Betty 
Jo  gal, — that's  what  I'm  a-meanin'! — an'  you-all 
sure  ain't  got  ary  right  for  ter  go  an'  do  sich  a  thing, 
nohow !" 

Brian  tried  to  check  her,  but  she  silenced  him 
with :  "I  won't  neither  hush !  I  can't !  I  tell  you 

214 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAX  KENT 

I'm  a-goin'  ter  say  my  say  if  you-all  kills  me !  I've 
just  naturally  got  ter!  Seems  like  I  was  all  afire 
inside  an'  would  burn  plumb  up  if  I  didn't!  I've 
got  rights,  I  reckon,  if  I  be  all  crooked  an'  twisted 
out  er  shape,  an'  ugly-faced  an'  no  learnin',  ner 
nothin'." 

A  dry  sob  choked  the  torrent  of  words  for  an  in 
stant;  but,  with  a  savage  effort  she  went  on:  "I 
know  I  ain't  nothin'  alongside  of  her,  but  you-all 
ain't  a-goin'  ter  have  her  just  the  same, — not  if  I 
have  ter  kill  her  first!  You  ain't  got  no  right  ter 
have  her,  nohow,  'cause  hit's  like's  not  you-all  done 
got  a  woman  already  somewheres,  wherever  'twas 
you-all  come  from;  an'  even  if  you  ain't  got  no 
woman  already,  I  sure  ain't  a-goin'  ter  let  you  have 
her !  What'd  she  ever  do  for  you  ?  Hit  was  me  what 
dragged  you-all  from  the  river  when  you  was  mighty 
nigh  dead  from  licker  an'  too  plumb  sick  ter  save 
yourself!  Hit's  me  that's  kept  from  tellin'  the 
Sheriff  who  you  be  an'  a-takin'  that  there  reward- 
money!  Hit  was  me  what  jumped  inter  the  river 
above  Elbow  Rock  just  ter  git  your  dad  burned  old 
book,  when  you'd  done  throwed  hit  plumb  away ! 

"I  knowed  first  time  I  heard  Auntie  Sue  name  her 
215 


THE  BE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

what  she'd  do  ter  you!  Any  fool  would  a-knowed 
what  a  woman  with  a  half-gal,  half-boy  name  like 
her'n  would  do,  an'  she's  done  hit, — she  sure  has! 
But  she  ain't  a-goin'  ter  do  no  more !  You-all  belongs 
ter  me  a  heap  more'n  you  do  ter  her, — if  hit  comes 
ter  that, — though,  I  ain't  a-foolin'  myself  none 
a-thinkin'  that  sich  as  you  could  ever  take  up  with  sich 
as  me, — me  bein'  what  I  am.  No,  sir ;  I  ain't  never 
fooled  myself  ary  bit  like  that,  Mr.  Burns.  But  hit 
ain't  a-makin'  no  difference  how  ugly  an'  crooked  an' 
no  'count  I  be  outside;  the  inside  of  me  is  a-lovin' 
you  like  she  never  could,  ner  nobody  else,  I  reckon. 
An'  I'll  just  go  on  a-lovin'  you,  no  matter  what  hap 
pens;  an'  I  ain't  a-carin'  whether  you  got  a  woman 
already  er  not,  er  whether  you-all  have  robbed  er 
killed,  er  what  you  done.  An' — an' — so  I'm  a-tellin7 
you,  you'd  best  not  let  her  come  back  here  no  more, 
'cause — 'cause  I  just  naturally  can't  stand  hit  ter  see 
youuns  tergether !  'Fore  God,  I'm  a-tellin'  you  true, 
—I'll  sure  hurt  her !" 

The  girl's  voice  raised  to  a  pitch  of  frenzied  ex 
citement,  and,  whirling,  she  pointed  to  the  river,  as 
she  cried :  "Look  out  there !  What  do  you-all  reckon 
your  fine  Betty  Jo  lady  would  do  if  I  was  ter  git  her 

216 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

ketched  in  them  there  rapids  ?  What  do  you-all  reckon 
the  Elbow  Rock  water  would  do  ter  her  ?  I'll  tell  you 
what  hit'd  do:  Hit  would  smash  an'  grind  an'  tear 
an'  hammer  that  there  fine,  straight  body  of  hers  'til 
hit  was  all  broken  an'  twisted  an'  crooked  a  heap 
worse'n  what  I  be. — that's  what  hit  would  do;  an' 
hit  would  scratch  an'  cut  an'  beat  up  that  pretty  face 
an'  mess  up  her  pretty  hair  an'  choke  her  an'  smother 
her  'til  she  was  all  blue-black  an'  muddy,  an'  her 
eyes  was  red  an'  starin',  an'  she  was  nothin'  but  just 
an  ugly  lump  of  dirt ;  an'  hit  wouldn't  even  leave  her 
her  fine  clothes  neither, — the  Elbow  Rock  water 
wouldn't, — hit'd  just  naturally  tear  'em  off  her,  an' 
leave  her  'thout  ary  thing  what's  makin'  you  love  her 
like  you're  a-doin' !  An'  where  would  all  her  fine 
schoolin'  an'  smart  talk  an'  pretty  ways  be  then? 
Eh  ?  She  wouldn't  be  no  better,  ner  half  as  good  as 
me,  I'm  a-tellin'  you,  onct  Elbow  Rock  got  done  with 
her!" 

The  poor  creature  finished  in  wild  triumph;  then 
suddenly,  as  though  spent  with  the  very  fury  of  her 
passion,  she  turned  from  the  river,  and  said  dully: 
"You'd  sure  best  not  let  her  come  back,  sir!  'Fore 
God,  I  ain't  a-wantin'  ter  do  hit,  but  hit  seems  like 

217 


THE  EE-CREATION  OF  BEIAIST  KENT 

I  can't  help  myself;  I  can't  sleep  for  wantin'  ter 
fix  hit  so, — so's  you  just  couldn't  want  ter  have  her 
no  more'n  you're  a-wantin'  me.  I — I — sure  ain't 
a-foolin'  myself  none,  not  ary  bit,  a-thinkin'  you-all 
could  ever  git  ter  likin'  sich  as  me ;  but,  I  can't  help 
sort  of  dreamin'  'bout  hit  an'  a-pretendin',  an' — an' 
all  the  while  I'm  a-knowin',  inside  er  me  like,  that 
there  ain't  nobody, — not  Auntie  Sue,  nor  this  here 
Betty  Jo,  nor  that  there  other  woman,  nor  anybody, — 
what  kin  care  for  you  like  I'm  a-carin', — they  just 
naturally  couldn't  care  like  me;  'cause — 'cause,  you 
see,  sir,  I  ain't  got  nobody  else, — ain't  no  man  but 
you  ever  even  been  decent  ter  me.  I  sure  ain't  got 
nobody  else — " 

The  distraught  creature's  sobs  prevented  further 
speech,  and  ^he  dropped  down  on  the  ground,  weak 
and  exhaustea;  her  poor  twisted  body  shaking  and 
writhing  with  the  emotion  she  could  not  voice. 

For  a  little  while,  Brian  Kent  himself  was  as 
helpless  as  Judy.  He  could  only  stand  dumbly, 
staring  at  her  as  she  crouched  at  his  feet.  Then,  very 
gently,  he  lifted  her  from  the  ground,  and  tried  as 
best  he  could  to  comfort  her.  But  he  felt  his  words 


218 


THE  EE-CKEATIOX  OF  BRIAIST  KEXT 

to  be  very  shallow  and  inadequate,  even  though  his 
own  voice  was  trembling  with  emotion. 

"Come,  Judy,  dear,"  he  said,  at  last,  when  she 
seemed  to  have  in  a  measure  regained  her  self-con 
trol.  "Come.  You  must  go  back  to  the  house, 
child." 

Drawing  away  from  his  supporting  arm,  she  an 
swered,  quietly:  "I  ain't  no  jliild,  no  more,  Mr. 
Burns:  I'm  sure  a  woman,  *iow.  I'm  just  as  much 
a  woman  as — as — she  is,  if  I  be  like  what  I  am.  I'm 
plumb  sorry  I  had  ter  do  this;  but  I  just  naturally 
couldn't  help  hit.  You  ain't  got  no  call  ter  be  scared 
I'll  do  hit  again." 

When  they  were  nearing  the  house,  Judy  stopped 
again,  and,  for  a  long  minute,  looked  silently  out 
over  the  moonlit  river,  while  Brian  stood  watching 
her. 

"Hit  is  pretty,  ain't  hit,  Mr.  Burns  ?"  she  said  at 
last.  "With  the  hills  all  so  soft  an' — an'  dreamy- 
like,  an'  them  clouds  a-floatin'  'way  up  there  over  the 
top  of  Table  Mountain;  with  the  moon  makin'  'em 
all  silvery  an'  shiny  'round  the  edges,  an'  them  trees 
on  yon  side  the  river  lookin'  like  they  was  made  er 


219 


THE  KE-CKEATTON  OF  BKIAN  KENT 

smoke  er  fog  er  somethin'  like  that ;  an'  the  old  river 
hitself  a-layin'  there  in  The  Bend  like — like  a  long 
strip  of  shinin'  gold, — hit  sure  is  pretty!  Funny, 
I  couldn't  never  see  hit  that  a-way  before, — ain't 
hit?" 

"Yes,  Judy ;  it  is  beautiful  to-night,"  he  said. 

But  Judy,  apparently  without  hearing  him,  con 
tinued:  "  'Seems  like  I  can  sense  a  little  ter-night 
what  Auntie  Sue  an'  youuns  are  allus  a-talkin'  'bout 
the  river, — 'bout  hit's  bein'  like  life  an'  sich  as  that. 
An'  hit  'pears  like  I  kin  kind  of  git  a  little  er  what 
you  done  wrote  'bout  hit  in  your  book, — 'bout  the 
currents  an'  the  still  places  an'  the  rough  water  an' 
all.  I  reckon  as  how  I'm  a  part  of  your  river,  too, 
ain't  I,  Mr.  Burns  ?" 

"Yes,  Judy,"  he  answered,  wonderingly;  "we  are 
all  parts  of  the  river." 

"I  reckon  you're  right,"  she  continued.  "Hit  sure 
'pears  ter  be  that  a-way.  But  I  kin  tell  you-all  some- 
thin'  else  'bout  the  river  what  you  didn't  put  down 
in  your  book,  Mr.  Burns :  There's  heaps  an'  heaps 
er  snags  an'  quicksands  an'  sunk  rocks  an'  shaller 
places  where  hit  looks  deep  an'  deep  holes  where  hit 
looks  shaller,  an'  currents  what's  hid  'way  down 

220 


THE  KE-CEEATION  OF  BKIAN  KENT 

under  that'll  ketch  an'  drag  you  in  when  you  ain't 
a-thinkin',  an'  drown  you  sure.  'Tain't  all  of  the 
river  what  Auntie  Sue  an'  youuns  kin  see  from  the 
porch.  You  see,  I  knows  'bout  hit, — ''bout  them  other 
things  I  mean, — 'cause  I  was  borned  and  growed  up 
a-knowin'  'bout  'em ;  an' — an' — the  next  time  you-all 
writes  er  book,  Mr.  Burns,  I  'low  you-all  ought  ter 
put  in  'bout  them  there  snags  an'  things,  'cause  folks 
sure  got  ter  know  'bout  'em,  if  they  ain't  a-wantin' 
ter  git  drowned." 

When  Judy  had  gone  into  the  house,  Brian  again 
sat  alone  on  the  porch. 

An  hour,  perhaps,  had  passed  when  a  voice  behind 
him  said:  "Why,  Brian,  are  you  still  up?  I  sup 
posed  you  were  in  bed  long  ago." 

He  turned  to  see  Auntie  Sue,  standing  in  the  door 
way. 

"And  what  in  the  world  are  you  prowling  about 
for,  this  time  of  the  night  ?"  Brian  retorted,  bringing 
a  chair  for  her. 

"I  am  prowling  because  I  couldn't  sleep, — think 
ing  about  you,  Brian,"  she  answered. 

"I  fear  that  is  the  thing  that  is  keeping  me  up, 
too,"  he  returned  grimly. 

221 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

"I  know,"  she  said  gently.  "Sometimes,  one's  self 
does  keep  one  awake.  Is  it — is  it  anything  you  care 
to  tell  me  ?  Would  it  help  for  me  to  know  ?" 

For  some  time,  he  did  not  answer;  while  the  old 
teacher  waited  silently.  At  last,  he  spoke,  slowly: 
"Auntie  Sue,  what  is  the  greatest  wrong  that  a 
woman  can  do?" 

"The  greatest  wrong  a  woman  can  do,  Brian,  is  the 
greatest  wrong  that  a  man  can  do." 

"But,  what  is  it,  Auntie  Sue  ?"  he  persisted. 

"I  think,"  she  answered, — "indeed  I  am  quite 
sure, — that  the  greatest  wrong  is  for  a  woman  to  kill 
a  man's  faith  in  woman;  and  for  a  man  to  kill  a 
woman's  faith  in  man." 

Brian  Kent  buried  his  face  in  his  hands. 

"Am  I  right,  dear?"  asked  the  old  gentlewoman, 
after  a  little. 

And  Brian  Kent  answered:  "Yes,  Auntie  Sue, 
you  are  right — that  is  the  greatest  wrong." 

Again  they  were  silent.  It  was  as  though  few 
words  were  needed  between  the  woman  of  seventy 
years  and  this  man  who,  out  of  some  great  trouble, 
had  been  so  strangely  brought  to  her  by  the  river. 

Then  the  silvery-haired  old  teacher  spoke  again: 

223 


THE  KE-CREATIO:NT  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

"Brian,  have  you  ever  wondered  that  I  am  so  alone  in 
the  world?  Have  you  ever  asked  yourself  why  I 
never  married?'7 

"Yes,  Auntie  Sue,"  he  answered.  "I  have  won 
dered." 

"Many  people  have/'  she  said,  with  simple  frank 
ness.  Then — "I  am  going  to  tell  you  something, 
dear  hoy,  that  only  two  people  in  the  world  beside 
myself  ever  knew,  and  they  are  both  dead,  many  years 
now.  I  am  going  to  tell  you,  because  I  feel — because 
I  think — that,  perhaps,  it  may  help  you  a  little.  I, 
too,  Brian,  had  my  dreams  when  I  was  a  girl, — my 
dreams  of  happiness, — such  as  every  true  woman 
hopes  for ; — of  a  home  with  all  that  home  means ; — 
of  a  lover-husband; — of  little  ones  who  would  call 
me  'mother' ; — and  my  dreams  ended,  Brian,  on  a 
battlefield  of  the  Civil  War.  He  went  from  me  the 
very  day  we  were  promised.  He  never  returned.  I 
have  always  felt  that  we  were  as  truly  one  as  though 
the  church  had  solemnized  and  the  law  had  legalized 
our  union.  I  promised  that  I  would  wait  for  him." 

"And  you — you  have  kept  that  promise?  You 
have  been  true  to  that  memory  ?"  Brian  Kent  asked, 
wonderingly. 

223 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

"I  have  been  true  to  him,  Brian ; — all  the  years  of 
my  life  I  have  been  true  to  him." 

Brian  Kent  bowed  his  head,  reverently. 

Rising,  the  old  gentl woman  went  close  to  him,  and 
put  her  hands  on  his  shoulders.  "Brian,  dear,  I  have 
told  you  my  secret  because  I  thought  it  might  help 
you  to  know.  Oh,  my  boy — my  boy, — don't — don't 
let  anything — don't  let  anyone — kill  your  faith  in 
womanhood !  No  matter  how  bitter  your  experience, 
you  can  believe,  now,  that  there  are  women  who  can 
be  faithful  and  true.  Surely,  you  can  believe  it  now, 
Brian, — you  must!" 

And  as  he  caught  her  hands  in  his,  and  raised  his 
face  to  whisper,  "I  do  believe,  Auntie  Sue,"  she 
stooped  and  kissed  him. 

Then,  again,  Brian  Kent  was  alone  in  the  night 
with  his  thoughts. 

And  the  river  swept  steadily  on  its  shining  way 
through  the  moonlit  world  to  the  distant  sea. 


224 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

AN  AWKWARD  SITUATION. 

REQUEST  letters  from  Betty  Jo  informed 
Brian  and  Auntie  Sue  of  that  practical  and 
businesslike  young  woman's  negotiations  with 
various  Eastern  publishers,  until,  at  last,  the  matter 
was  finally  settled  to  Betty  Jo's  satisfaction. 

She  had  contracted  with  a  well-known  firm  for  the 
publication  of  the  book.  The  details  were  all  ar 
ranged.  The  work  was  to  begin  immediately.  Betty 
Jo  was  returning  to  the  little  log  house  by  the  river. 

Brian  drove  to  Thompsonville  the  morning  she 
was  to  arrive,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  "Old  Prince" 
had  never  jogged  so  leisurely  along  the  winding  river 
road,  yet  he  was  at  the  little  mountain  station  nearly 
an  hour  before  the  train  was  due. 

Those  weeks  had  been  very  anxious  weeks  to  Brian, 
in  spite  of  Auntie  Sue's  oft-repeated  assurances  that 
no  publisher  could  fail  to  recognize  the  value  of  his 
work.  And,  to  be  entirely  truthful,  Brian  himself, 
deep  down  in  his  heart,  felt  a  certainty  that  his  work 

225 


THE  RE-CKEATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

would  receive  recognition.  But,  still,  tie  would  argue 
with  himself,  his  feeling  of  confidence  might  very 
well  be  due  to  the  dear  old  gentlewoman's  enthusiastic 
faith  in  him  rather  than  in  any  merit  in  the  book 
itself;  and  it  was  a  well-established  fact — to  all  un 
published  writers  at  least — that  publishers  are  a 
heartless  folk,  and  exceedingly  loth  to  extend  a  help 
ful  hand  to  unrecognized  genius,  ho\vover  great  the 
worth  of  its  offering.  He  could  scarcely  believe  the 
letters  which  announced  the  good  news.  It  did  not 
seem  possible  that  this  all-important  first  step  toward 
the  success  which  Auntie  Sue  so  confidently  pre 
dicted  for  his  book  was  now  an  accomplished  fact. 

And  now  that  Betty  Jo's  mission  was  completed, 
it  seemed  months  ago  that  he  had  said  good-bye  to  her 
and  had  watched  the  train  disappear  between  the 
hills.  But  when  at  last  the  long  whistle  echoing  and 
reechoing  from  the  timbered  mountain-sides  an 
nounced  the  coming  of  the  train  that  was  bringing 
her  back,  and  the  train  itself  a  moment  later  burst 
into  view  and,  with  a  rushing  roar  of  steam  and 
wheels  and  brakes,  came  to  a  stop  at  the  depot  plat 
form,  and  there  was  Betty  Jo  herself,  it  seemed  that 
it  was  only  yesterday  that  she  had  gone  away. 

226 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

Very  calm  and  self-possessed  and  well  poised  was 
Betty  Jo  when  she  stepped  from  the  train  to  meet 
him.  She  was  very  capable  and  businesslike  as  she 
claimed  her  baggage  and  saw  it  safely  in  the  spring 
wagon.  But  still  there  was  a  something  in  her  manner 
— a  light  in  the  gray  eyes,  perhaps,  or  a  quality  in 
the  clear  voice — that  meant  worlds  more  to  the  man 
than  her  simple  statement,  that  she  was  glad  to  see 
him  again.  Laughingly,  she  refused  to  tell  him  about 
her  trip  as  they  rode  home,  saying  that  Auntie  Sue 
must  hear  it  all  with  him.  And  so  conscious  was  the 
man  of  her  presence  there  beside  him  that,  somehow, 
the  prospective  success  or  failure  of  his  book  did  not 
so  much  matter,  after  all. 

In  the  excitement  of  the  joyous  meeting  between 
Auntie  Sue  and  Betty  Jo,  Judy's  stoical  self-repres 
sion  was  unnoticed.  The  mountain  girl  went  about 
her  part  of  the  household  work  silently  with  apparent 
indifference  to  the  young  woman's  presence.  But 
when,  after  the  late  dinner  was  over,  Auntie  Sue  and 
Brian  listened  to  Betty  Jo's  story,  Judy,  unobserved, 
was  nearby,  so  that  no  word  of  the  conversation  es 
caped  her. 

Three  times  that  night,  when  all  was  still  in  the 

227 


THE  KE-CKEATION  OF  BKIAN  KENT 

little  log  house  by  the  river,  the  door  of  Judy's  room 
opened  cautiously,  and  the  twisted  form  of  the  moun 
tain  girl  appeared.  Each  time,  for  a  few  minutes, 
she  stood  there  in  the  moonlight  that  shone  through 
the  open  window  into  the  quiet  room,  listening,  lis 
tening;  then  went  stealthily  to  the  door  of  the  room 
where  Betty  Jo  was  sleeping,  and  each  time  she 
paused  before  that  closed  door  to  look  fearfully  about 
the  dimly  lighted  living  room.  Once  she  crept  to 
Brian's  door,  and  then  to  Auntie  Sue's,  and  once  she 
silently  put  her  hand  on  the  latch  of  that  door  be 
tween  her  and  Betty  Jo;  but,  each  time,  she  went 
stealthily  back  to  her  own  room. 

Betty  Jo  awoke  early  that  morning.  Outside  her 
open  window  the  birds  were  singing,  and  the  sun, 
which  was  just  above  the  higher  mountain-tops,  was 
flooding  the  world  with  its  wealth  of  morning  beauty. 
The  music  of  the  feathery  chorus  and  the  golden 
beauty  of  the  light  that  streamed  through  the  window 
into  her  room,  with  the  fresh  enticing  perfume  of  the 
balmy  air,  were  very  alluring  to  the  young  woman 
just  returned  from  the  cities'  stale  and  dingy  atmos 
phere. 

Betty  Jo  decided  instantly  that  she  must  go  for  a 

228 


THE  RE-CREATIOtf  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

before-breakfast  walk.  From  the  window,  as  she 
dressed,  she  saw  Brian  going  to  the  barn  with  the 
milk-pail,  and  heard  him  greet  the  waiting  "Bess" 
and  exchange  a  cheery  good-morning  with  "Old 
Prince,"  who  hailed  his  coming  with  a  low  whinny. 

Quietly,  so  as  not  to  disturb  Auntie  Sue,  Betty  Jo 
slipped  from  the  house  and  went  down  the  gentle 
slope  to  the  river-bank,  and  strolled  along  the  margin 
of  the  stream  toward  Elbow  Rock, — pausing  some 
times  to  look  out  over  the  water  as  her  attention  was 
drawn  to  some  movement  of  the  river  life,  or  turning 
aside  to  pluck  a  wild  flower  that  caught  her  eye. 
She  had  made  her  way  thus  leisurely  two-thirds  of 
the  distance  perhaps  from  the  house  to  Elbow  Rock 
bluff  when  Judy  suddenly  confronted  her.  The 
mountain  girl  came  so  unexpectedly  from  among  the 
bushes  that  Betty  Jo,  who  was  stooping  over  a  flower, 
was  startled. 

"Judy!"  she  exclaimed.  "Goodness!  child,  how 
you  frightened  me !"  she  finished  with  a  good-natured 
laugh.  But  as  she  noticed  the  mountain  girl's  ap 
pearance,  the  laugh  died  on  her  lips,  and  her  face  was 
grave  with  puzzled  concern. 

Poor  Judy's  black  hair  was  uncombed  and  dishev- 

229 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

elled.  The  sallow,  old-yo^ng  face  was  distorted  with 
passion,  and  the  beady  eyes  glittered  with  the  light 
of  an  insane  purpose. 

"What  is  it,  Judy?"  asked  Betty  Jo.  "What  in 
the  world  is  the  matter  ?" 

"What'd  you-all  come  back  for  ?"  demanded  Judy 
with  sullen  menace  in  every  word.  "I  done  told  him 
not  ter  let  you.  Hit  'pears  ter  me  youuns  ought  ter 
have  more  sense." 

Alarmed  at  the  girl's  manner,  Betty  Jo  thought 
to  calm  her  by  saying,  gently:  "Why,  Judy,  dear, 
you  are  all  excited  and  not  a  bit  like  yourself.  Tell 
me  what  troubles  you.  I  came  back  because  I  love 
to  be  here  with  Auntie  Sue,  of  course.  Why  shouldn't 
I  come  if  Auntie  Sue  likes  to  have  me  ?" 

"You-all  are  a-lyin',"  returned  Judy  viciously. 
"But  you-all  sure  can't  fool  me.  You-all  come  back 
'cause  he's  here." 

A  warm  blush  colored  Betty  Jo's  face. 

Judy's  voice  raised  shrilly  as  she  saw  the  effect  of 
hei  words. 

^You-all  knows  dad  burned  well  that's  what  you 
come  back  for.  But  hit  ain't  a-goin'  ter  do  you  no 
good ;  hit  sure  ain't.  I  done  told  him.  I  sure  warned 

230 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

him  what'd  happen  if  he  let  you  come  back.  I  heard 
you-all  a-talkin'  yesterday  evenin'  all  'bout  his  book 
an'  what  a  great  man  that  there  publisher-feller  back 
East  'lows  he's  go  in'  ter  be.  An'  I  kin  see,  now, 
that  you-all  has  knowed  hit  from  the  start,  an'  that's 
why  you-all  been  a-fixin'  ter  git  him  away  from  me. 
I  done  studied  hit  all  out  last  night ;  but  I  sure  ain't 
a-goin'  ter  let  you  do  hit." 

As  she  finished,  the  mountain  girl,  who  had  worked 
herself  into  a  frenzy  of  rage,  moved  stealthily  toward 
Betty  Jo,  and  her  face,  with  those  blazing  black  eyes, 
and  its  frame  of  black  unkempt  hair,  and  its  expres 
sion  of  insane  fury,  was  the  face  of  a  fiend. 

Betty  Jo  drew  back,  frightened  at  the  poor  crea 
ture's  wild  and  threatening  appearance. 

"Judy !"  she  said  sharply.  "Judy !  What  do  you 
mean !" 

With  a  snarling  grin  of  malicious  triumph,  Judy 
cried :  "Scared,  ain't  you !  You  sure  got  reason  ter 
be,  'cause  there  ain't  nothin'  kin  stop  me  now.  Know 
what  I'm  a-goin'  ter  do  ?  I'm  a-goin'  ter  put  you-all 
in  the  river,  just  like  I  told  him,  an'  old  Elbow  Rock 
is  a-goin'  ter  make  you-all  broken  an'  twisted  an' 
ugly  like  what  my  pap  made  me.  Oh,  hit'll  sure 

231 


THE  KE-CKEATION  OF  BKIAN  KENT 

fix  that  there  fine  slim  body  of  your'n,  an'  that  there 
pretty  face  what  he  likes  ter  look  at  so,  an'  them  fine 
clothes'll  be  all  wet  an'  mussed  an'  torn  off  you. 
You-all  sure  will  be  a-lookin'  worse'n  what  I  ever 
looked  the  next  time  he  sees  you, — you  with  your 
no-'count,  half -gal  and  half-boy  name!" 

As  the  mountain  girl,  with  the  quickness  of  a  wild 
thing,  leaped  upon  her,  Betty  Jo  screamed — one 
piercing  cry,  that  ended  in  a  choking  gasp  as  Judy's 
hands  found  her  throat. 

Brian,  who  was  still  at  the  barn,  busy  with  the 
morning  chores,  heard.  With  all  his  might,  he  ran 
toward  the  spot  from  which  the  call  came. 

Betty  Jo  fought  desperately;  but,  strong  as  she 
was,  she  could  never  have  endured  against  the  vicious 
strength  of  the  frenzied  mountain-bred  Judy,  who 
was  slowly  and  surely  forcing  her  toward  the  brink 
of  the  river-bank,  against  which  the  swift  waters  of 
the  rapids  swept  with  terrific  force. 

A  moment  more  and  Brian  would  have  been  too 
late.  Throwing  Judy  aside,  he  caught  the  exhausted 
Betty  Jo  in  his  arms,  and,  carrying  her  a  little  back 
from  the  edge  of  the  stream,  placed  her  gently  on 
the  ground. 

232 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

Betty  Jo  did  not  faint ;  but  she  was  too  spent  with 
her  exertions  to  speak,  though  she  managed  to  smile 
at  him  reassuringly,  and  shook  her  head  when  he 
asked  if  she  was  hurt. 

When  Brian  was  assured  that  the  girl  was  really 
unharmed,  he  turned  angrily  to  face  Judy.  But 
Judy  had  disappeared  in  the  brush. 

Presently,  as  Betty  Jo's  breathing  became  normal, 
she  arranged  her  disordered  hair  and  dress,  and  told 
Brian  what  the  mountain  girl  had  said ;  and  this,  of 
course,  forced  the  man  to  relate  his  experience  with 
Judy  that  night  when  she  had  told  him  that  Betty  Jo 
must  not  come  back. 

"I  suppose  I  should  have  warned  you,  Miss  Wil 
liams,'7  he  finished;  "but  the  whole  thing  seemed  to 
me  so  impossible,  I  could  not  believe  there  was  any 
danger  of  the  crazy  creature  actually  attempting  to 
carry  out  her  wild  threat;  and,  besides, — well,  you 
can  see  that  it  was  rather  difficult  for  me  to  speak 
of  it  to  you.  I  am  sorry,"  he  ended,  with  embar 
rassment. 

For  a  long  moment,  the  two  looked  at  each  other 
silently;  then  Betty  Jo's  practical  common  sense 


233 


THE  KE-CKEATION  OF  BKIAN  KENT 

came  to  the  rescue:  "It  would  have  been  awkward 
for  you  to  try  to  tell  me,  wouldn't  it,  Mr.  Burns? 
And  now  that  it  is  all  over,  and  no  harm  done,  we 
must  just  forget  it  as  quickly  as  we  can.  We  won't 
ever  mention  it  again,  will  we  ?" 

"Certainly  not,"  he  agreed  heartily.  "But  I  shall 
keep  an  eye  on  Miss  Judy,  in  the  future,  I  can  prom 
ise  you." 

"1  doubt  if  we  ever  see  her  again,"  returned  Betty 
Jo,  thoughtfully.  "I  don't  see  how  she  would  dare 
go  back  to  the  house  after  this.  I  expect  she  will 
return  to  her  father.  Poor  thing!  But  we  must  be 
careful  not  to  let  Auntie  Sue  know."  Then  smiling 
up  at  him,  she  added :  "It  seems  like  Auntie  Sue  is 
getting  us  into  all  sorts  of  conspiracies,  doesn't  it? 
What  do  you  suppose  we  will  be  called  upon  to  hide 
from  her  next?" 

At  Brian's  suggestion,  they  went  first  to  the  barn, 
where  he  quickly  finished  his  work.  Then,  carrying 
the  full  milk-pail  between  them,  they  proceeded, 
laughing  and  chatting,  to  the  house,  where  Auntie 
Sue  stood  in  the  doorway. 

The  dear  old  lady  smiled  when  she  saw  them  com- 


234 


THE  RE-CREATKXN"  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

ing  so,  and,  returning  their  cheery  greeting  happily, 
added:  "Have  you  children  seen  Judy  anywhere? 
The  child  is  not  in  her  room,  and  the  fire  is  not  even 
made  in  the  kitchen-stove  yet." 


235 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

BETTY  JO  FACES  HERSELF. 

|LL  that  day  Auntie  Sue  wondered  about  Judy, 
while  Brian  and  Betty  Jo  exhausted  their 
inventive  faculties  in  efforts  to  satisfy  the 
dear  old  lady  with  plausible  reasons  for  the  mountain 
girl's  disappearance. 

During  the  forenoon,  Brian  canvassed  the  imme 
diate  neighborhood,  and  returned  with  the  true  in 
formation  that  Judy  had  stopped  at  the  first  house 
below  Elbow  Rock  for  breakfast,  where  she  had  told 
the  people  that  she  was  going  back  to  her  father,  be 
cause  she  was  "doggone  tired  of  working  for  them 
there  city  folks  what  was  a-livin7  at  Auntie  Sue's." 

This  was,  in  a  way,  satisfactory  to  Auntie  Sue,  be 
cause  it  assured  her  that  the  girl  had  met  with  no 
serious  accident  and  because  she  knew  very  well  the 
mountain-bred  girPs  ability  to  take  care  of  herself 
in  the  hills.  But,  still,  the  gentle  mistress  of  the 
log  house  by  the  river  was  troubled  to  think  that 
Judy  would  leave  her  so  without  a  word. 

236 


THE  RE-CBEATION  OF  BKIAX  KENT 

Betty  Jo  was  so  occupied  during  the  day  by  her 
efforts  to  relieve  Auntie  Sue  that  she  had  but  little 
time  left  for  thought  of  herself  or  for  reflecting  on 
the  situation  revealed  in  her  encounter  with  Judy. 
But  many  times  during  the  day  the  mountain  girl's 
passionate  accusation  came  back  to  her,  "You-all  are 
a-lyin' !  You-all  come  back  'cause  he  is  here."  Nor 
could  she  banish  from  her  memory  the  look  that  was 
on  Brian  Kent's  face  that  morning  when  he  was 
carrying  her  in  his  arms  back  from  the  brink  of  the 
river-bank,  over  which  the  frenzied  Judy  had  so 
nearly  sent  her  to  her  death.  And  so,  when  the  day 
at  last  was  over,  and  she  was  alone  in  her  room,  it 
was  not  strange  that  Betty  Jo  should  face  herself 
squarely  with  several  definite  and  pointed  and  ex 
ceedingly  personal  questions. 

It  was  like  Betty  Jo  to  be  honest  with  herself  and  to 
demand  of  herself  that  her  problems  be  met  squarely. 

"First  of  all,  Betty  Jo,"  she  demanded,  in  her 
downright,  straightforward  way  of  going  most  di 
rectly  to  the  heart  of  a  matter,  "are  you  in  love  with 
Brian  Kent  ?" 

Without  hesitation,  the  answer  came,  "I  have  not 
permitted  myself  to  love  him." 

237 


THE  RE-CEEATION  OF  BEIA1NT  KENT 

"You  have  not  permitted  yourself  to  love  him? 
That  means  that  you  would  be  in  love  with  him  if 
you  dared,  doesn't  it  ?" 

And  Betty  Jo,  in  the  safe  seclusion  of  her  room, 
felt  her  cheeks  burn  as  she  acknowledged  the  truth  of 
the  deduction. 

The  next  question  was  inevitable :  "Is  Brian  Kent 
in  love  with  you,  Betty  Jo  ?" 

And  Betty  Jo,  recalling  many,  many  things,  was 
compelled  to  answer,  from  the  triumphant  gladness  of 
her  heart :  "He  is  trying  not  to  be,  but  he  can't  help 
himself.  And" — the  downright  and  straightforward 
young  woman  continued — "because  I  know  that 
Brian  Kent  is  trying  so  hard  not  to  love  me  is  the 
real  reason  why  I  have  not  permitted  myself  to  love 
him." 

But  the  clear-thinking,  practical  Betty  Jo  pro 
tested  quickly:  "You  must  remember  that  you  are 
wholly  ignorant  of  Brian  Kent's  history,  except  for 
the  things  he  has  chosen  to  tell  you.  And  those 
things  in  his  life  which  he  has  confessed  to  you  are 
certainly  not  the  things  that  could  win  the  love  of  a 
girl  like  you,  even  though  they  might  arouse  your 


238 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

interest  in  the  man.  Interest  is  not  love,  Betty  Jo. 
Are  you  quite  sure  that  you  are  not  making  the  mis 
take  that  is  most  commonly  made  by  young  women  ?" 

Betty  Jo  was  compelled  to  answer  that  she  was 
not  mistaking  interest  for  love,  because  had  such 
been  the  case,  she  would  not  be  able  to  so  analyze 
the  situation.  Betty  Jo's  quite  womanly  prejudice 
is  admitted,  because  the  prejudice  was  so  womanly, 
and  because  Betty  Jo  herself  was  so  womanly. 

"Very  well,  Miss  Betty  Jo,"  the  young  woman 
continued  inexorably,  "you  are  not  permitting  your 
self  to  love  Brian  Kent  because  Brian  Kent  is  try 
ing  not  to  love  you.  But,  why  is  the  man  trying  so 
hard  not  to  love  you?" 

Betty  Jo  thought  very  hard  over  this  question, 
and  felt  her  way  carefully  to  the  answer.  "It  might 
be,  of  course,  that  it  is  because  he  is  a  fugitive  from 
the  law.  A  man  under  such  circumstances  could 
easily  convince  himself  that  no  good  woman  would 
permit  herself  to  love  him,  and  he  would  therefore, 
in  reasonable  self-defense,  prevent  himself  from  lov 
ing  her  if  he  could." 

But  surely  Brian  Kent  had  every  reason  to  know 


239 


THE  RE-CBEATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

that  Betty  Jo  did  not  at  all  regard  him  as  a  crim 
inal.  Betty  Jo,  as  Auntie  Sue,  recognized  only  the 
re-created  Brian  Kent.  If  that  were  all,  they  need 
only  wait  for  the  restitution  which  was  so  sure  to 
come  through  his  book.  And  Brian  Kent  himself, 
through  Auntie  Sue's  teaching  and  through  his  work, 
had  come  to  recognize  only  his  real  self,  and  not  the 
creature  of  circumstances  which  the  river  had  brought 
to  the  little  log  house.  Betty  Jo  felt  sure  that  there 
was  more  than  this  that  was  forcing  the  man  to  de 
fend  himself  against  his  love  for  her.  Thus  she  was 
driven  to  the  conclusion  that  there  was  something  in 
Brian  Kent's  history  that  he  had  not  made  known 
to  her, — a  something  that  denied  him  the  right  to 
love  her,  and  that, — reasoned  poor  Betty  Jo  in  the 
darkness  of  her  room, — could  only  be  a  woman, — a 
woman  to  whom  he  was  bound,  not  by  love  indeed, — 
Betty  Jo  could  not  believe  that, — but  by  ties  of  honor 
and  of  the  law. 

And  very  clearly  Betty  Jo  reasoned,  too,  that 
Brian's  attitude  toward  her  evidenced  unmistakably 
his  high  sense  of  honor.  The  very  fact  that  he  had 
so  persistently — in  all  their  companionship,  in  their 
most  intimate  moments  together  even — held  this  in- 

240 


0?HE  RE-OEEATION  OF  BBIAX  KEXT 

visible  and,  to  her,  unknown  barrier  between  them, 
convinced  her  beyond  a  doubt  of  the  essential  in 
tegrity  of  his  character,  and  compelled  her  admira 
tion  and  confidence. 

"That  is  exactly  it,  Betty  Jo,"  she  told  herself 
sadly;  "you  love  him  because  he  tries  so  hard  to  keep 
himself  from  loving  you." 

And  thus  Betty  Jo  proved  the  correctness  of 
Auntie  Sue's  loving  estimate  of  her  character  and 
justified  the  dear  old  teacher's  faith  in  the  sterling 
quality  of  her  womanhood. 

Face  to  face  with  herself,  fairly  and  squarely,  the 
girl  accepted  the  truth  of  the  situation  for  Brian 
and  for  herself,  and  determined  her  course.  She 
must  go  away, — she  must  go  at  once. 

She  wished  that  she  had  not  returned  to  the  log 
house  by  the  river.  She  had  never  fully  admitted 
to  herself  the  truth  of  her  feeling  toward  Brian  until 
Judy  had  so  unexpectedly  precipitated  the  crisis; 
but,  she  knew,  now,  that  Judy  was  right,  and  that 
the  real  reason  for  her  return  was  her  love  for  him. 
She  knew,  as  well,  that  her  very  love, — which,  once 
fully  admitted  and  recognized  by  her,  demanded  with 
all  the  strength  of  her  young  womanhood  the  nearness 

241 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

and  companionship  of  the  mate  her  heart  had  chosen, 
— demanded,  also,  that  she  help  him  to  keep  that  fine 
sense  of  honor  and  true  nobility  of  character  which 
had  won  her. 

She  understood  instinctively  that, — now  that  she 
had  confessed  her  love  to  herself, — she  would,  in 
spite  of  herself,  tempt  him  in  a  thousand  ways  to 
throw  aside  that  barrier  which  he  had  so  honorably 
maintained  between  them.  Her  heart  would  plead 
with  him  to  disregard  his  better  self,  and  come  to 
her.  Her  very  craving  for  the  open  assurance  of  his 
love  would  tempt  him,  perhaps  beyond  his  strength. 
And,  yet,  she  knew  as  truly  that,  if  he  should  yield ; 
if  he  should  cast  aside  the  barrier  of  his  honor ;  if  he 
should  deny  his  best  self,  and  answer  her  call,  it 
would  be  disastrous  beyond  measure  to  them  both. 

To  save  the  fineness  of  their  love,  Betty  Jo  must 
go.  If  it  should  be  that  they  never  met  again,  still 
she  must  go. 

But  there  were  other  currents  moving  in  the  river 
that  night.  In  the  steady  onward  flow  of  the  whole, 
Betty  Jo's  life-currents  seemed  to  be  setting  away 
from  the  man  she  loved.  But  other  currents,  un 
known  to  the  girl,  who  faced  herself  so  honestly,  and 

242 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

who  so  bravely  accepted  the  truth  she  found,  were 
moving  in  ways  beyond  her  knowledge.  Directed 
and  influenced  by  innumerable  and  unseen  forces  and 
obstacles,  the  currents  which,  combined,  made  the 
stream  of  life  in  its  entirety,  were  weaving  them 
selves  together, — interlacing  and  separating, — draw 
ing  close  and  pulling  apart, — only  to  mingle  as  one 
again. 

Betty  Jo  saw  only  Brian  Kent  and  herself,  and 
their  love  which  she  now  acknowledged,  and  she  had, 
as  it  were,  only  a  momentary  glimpse  of  those  small 
parts  of  the  stream. 

Betty  Jo  could  not  know  of  those  other  currents 
that  were  moving  so  mysteriously  about  her  as  the 
river  poured  itself  onward  so  unceasingly  to  the  sea. 


243 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

JUDY'S  CONFESSION. 

\~N  spite  of  all  their  care,  Brian  and  Betty  Jo 
did  not  wholly  convince  Auntie  Sue  that 
there  was  no  more  in  Judy's  disappearance 
than  the  report  from  the  neighbors  indicated.  The 
dear  old  lady  felt  that  there  was  something  known  to 
the  young  people  that  they  were  keeping  from  her; 
and,  while  she  did  not  question  their  motives,  and 
certainly  did  not  worry, — for  Auntie  Sue  never  wor 
ried, — she  was  not  satisfied  with  the  situation.  When 
she  retired  to  her  room  for  the  night,  she  told  herself, 
with  some  spirit,  that  she  would  surely  go  to  the 
bottom  of  the  affair  the  next  morning. 

It  happened  that  Auntie  Sue  went  to  the  bottom 
of  the  affair  much  sooner  than  she  expected. 

It  must  have  been  about  that  same  hour  of  the 
night  when  Betty  Jo,  after  reaching  her  decision  to 
go  away,  retired  to  her  bed,  that  Auntie  Sue  was 
aroused  by  a  low  knocking  at  the  open  window  of 
her  room. 

244 


THE  KE-CKEATION  OF  BKIAN  KENT 

The  old  teacher  listened  without  moving,  her  first 
thought  being  that  her  fancy  was  tricking  her.  The 
sound  came  again,  and,  this  time,  there  could  be  no 
mistake.  Sitting  up  in  her  bed,  Auntie  Sue  looked 
toward  the  window,  and,  at  the  sound  of  her  move 
ment,  a  low  whisper  came  from  without. 

"Don't  be  scared,  Auntie  Sue.  Hit  ain't  nobody 
but  just  me." 

As  she  recognized  Judy's  voice,  she  saw  the  moun 
tain  girl's  head  and  twisted  shoulders  outlined  above 
the  window-sill.  A  moment  more,  and  Auntie  Sue 
was  at  the  window. 

"Sh-h-h!"  cautioned  Judy.  "Don't  wake  'em  up. 
I  just  naturally  got  ter  tell  you-all  something  Auntie 
Sue;  but,  I  anrt  a-wantin'  Mr.  Burns  an'  that  there 
Betty  Jo  woman  ter  hear.  I  reckon  I  best  come 
through  the  winder." 

Acting  upon  the  word,  she  climbed  carefully  into 
the  room. 

"Judy,  child!    What—?" 

The  mountain  girl  interrupted  Auntie  Sue's  tremu 
lous  whisper  with :  "I'll  tell  hit  ter  you,  main,  in  a 
little  bit,  if  you'll  just  wait.  I  got  ter  see  if  they  are 
sure  'nough  a-sleepin'  first,  though." 

245 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

She  stole  silently  from  the  room,  to  return  a  few 
minutes  later.  "They  are  plumb  asleep,  both  of  'em/' 
she  said  in  a  low  tone,  when  she  had  cautiously  closed 
the  door.  "I  done  opened  the  doors  ter  their  rooms, 
an'  listened,  an'  shet  'em  again  'thout  ary  one  of  'em 
a-movin'  even.  I'll  fix  the  winder,  now,  an'  then  we 
kin  make  a  light." 

Carefully,  she  closed  the  window  and  drew  down 
the  shade.  Then  she  lit  the  lamp. 

Auntie  Sue,  who  was  sitting  on  the  bed,  looked  at 
the  girl  in  bewildered  amazement. 

With  a  nervous  laugh,  Judy  fingered  her  torn  dress 
and  dishevelled  hair.  "I  sure  am  a  sight,  ain't  I, 
ma'm?  I  done  hit  a-comin'  through  the  bresh  in  the 
dark.  But,  don't — don't — look  so  kinder  lost  like; 
you-all  ain't  got  no  call  ter  be  scared  of  me." 

"Why,  Judy,  dear,  I'm  not  afraid  of  you.  Come, 
child ;  tell  me  what  is  the  trouble." 

At  the  kindly  manner  and  voice  of  the  old  gentle 
woman,  those  black  eyes  filled  with  tears,  which,  for 
the  moment,  the  mountain  girl  stoically  permitted 
to  roll  down  her  thin  sallow  cheeks  unheeded.  Then, 
with  a  quick  resolute  jerk  of  her  twisted  body,  she 


246 


THE  EE-CKEATIO^"  OF  BKIAST  KENT 

drew  her  dress  sleeve  across  her  face,  and  said :  "I — 
I — reckon  I  couldn't  hate  myself  no  worse'n  I'm 
a-doin'.  Hit  seems  like  I  been  mighty  nigh  plumb 
crazy;  but,  I  just  naturally  had  ter  come  back  an' 
tell  you-all,  'cause  you-all  been  so  good  ter  me." 

She  placed  a  chair  for  Auntie  Sue,  and  added: 
"You-all  best  make  yourself  comfertable,  though, 
ma'm.  I'm  mighty  nigh  tuckered  out  myself.  Hit's 
a  right  smart  way  from  where  pap's  a-livin'  ter  here, 
an'  I  done  come  in  a  hurry." 

She  dropped  down  on  the  floor,  her  back  against 
the  bed,  and  clasped  her  knees  in  her  hands,  as  Auntie 
Sue  seated  herself. 

"Begin  at  the  beginning,  Judy,  and  tell  me  exactly 
what  has  happened,"  said  Auntie  Sue. 

"Yes,  ma'm,  I  will, — that's  what  I  was  aimin'  ter 
do  when  I  made  up  ter  come  back." 

And  she  did.  Starting  with  her  observation  of 
Brian  and  Betty  Jo,  and  her  conviction  of  their  love, 
she  told  of  her  interview  with  Brian  the  night  she 
warned  him  not  to  let  Betty  Jo  return,  and  finished 
with  the  account  of  her  attack  on  Betty  Jo  that 
morning. 


247 


THE  KE-CKEATIOST  OF  BKIAN  KENT 

Auntie  Sue  listened  with  amazement  and  pity. 
Here,  indeed,  was  a  wayward  and  troubled  life-cur 
rent. 

"But,  Judy,  Judy!"  exclaimed  the  gentle  old 
teacher,  "you  would  not  really  have  pushed  Betty  Jo 
into  the  river.  She  would  have  been  drowned,  child. 
Surely,  you  did  not  mean  to  kill  her,  Judy." 

The  girl  wrung  her  hands,  and  her  deformed  body 
swayed  to  and  fro  in  the  nervous  intensity  of  her 
emotions.  But  she  answered,  stubbornly:  "That 
there  was  just  what  I  was  aimin'  ter  do.  I'd  a-killed 
her,  sure,  if  Mr.  Burns  hadn't  a-come  just  when  he 
did.  I  can't  rightly  tell  how  hit  was,  but  hit  seemed 
like  there  was  somethin'  inside  of  me  what  was 
a-makin'  me  do  hit,  an'  I  couldn't,  somehow,  help 
myself.  An' — an' — that  ain't  all,  ma'm;  I  done 
worse'n  that,"  she  continued  in  a  low,  moaning  wail. 
"Oh,  my  God-A'mighty !  Why  didn't  Mr.  Burns 
sling  me  inter  the  river  an'  let  me  be  smashed  an' 
drowned  at  Elbow  Eock  while  he  had  me,  'stead  of 
lettin'  me  git  away  ter  do  what  I've  gone  an'  done !" 

Auntie  Sue's  wonderful  native  strength  enabled 
her  to  speak  calmly:  "What  is  it  you  have  done, 
Judy  ?  You  must  tell  me,  child." 

243 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

The  older  woman's  voice  and  manner  steadied  the 
girl,  and  she  answered  more  in  her  usual  colorless 
monotone,  but  still  guarded  so  as  not  to  awaken  the 
other  members  of  the  household:  "Hit  seemed  like 
Mr.  Burns  ketchin'  me,  like  he  did,  an'  me  a-seein' 
him  with  her  in  his  arms,  made  me  plumb  crazy- 
mad,  an'  I  'lowed  I'd  fix  hit  so's  he  couldn't  never 
have  her  nohow,  so  I — I — done  told  pap  'bout  him 
bein'  Brian  Kent  what  had  robbed  that  there  bank, 
an'  how  there  was  er  lot  of  reward-money  a-waitin' 
for  anybody  that'd  tell  on  him." 

Auntie  Sue  was  too  shocked  to  speak.  Was  it 
possible  that,  now,  when  the  real  Brian  Kent  was 
so  far  removed  from  the  wretched  bank  clerk;  when 
his  fine  natural  character  and  genius  had  become  so 
established,  and  his  book  was —  No,  no !  It  could 
not  be !  God  could  not  let  men  be  so  cruel  as  to  send 
Auntie  Sue's  Brian  Kent  to  prison  because  that  other 
Brian  Kent,  tormented  by  wrong  environment,  and 
driven  by  an  evil  combination  of  circumstances,  had 
taken  a  few  dollars  of  the  bank's  money !  And  Betty 
Jo —  No,  no !  Auntie  Sue's  heart  cried  out  in  pro 
test.  There  must  be  some  way.  She  would  find  some 
way.  The  banker — Homer  Ward!  Auntie  Sue's 

249 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

mind,  alert  and  vigorous  as  the  mind  of  a  woman  of 
half  her  years,  caught  at  the  thought  of  her  old  friend 
and  pupil.  She  leaned  forward  in  her  chair  over 
the  girl  who  sat  on  the  floor  at  her  feet,  and  her  voice 
was  strong  and  clear  with  the  strength  of  the  spirit 
which  dominated  her  frail  body. 

"Judy,  did  you  tell  any  one  else  besides  your 
father?" 

"There  wasn't  nobody  else  ter  tell,"  came  the 
answer.  "An'  pap,  he  'lowed  he'd  kill  me  if  I  said 
anythin'  ter  anybody  'fore  he'd  got  the  money.  He 
aims  ter  git  hit  all  for  hisself." 

"What  will  he  do  ?    Will  he  go  to  Sheriff  Knox  ?" 

"No,  ma'm ;  pap,  he  'lowed  if  he  done  that  a-way, 
the  Sheriff  he'd  take  most  of  the  money.  Pap's 
a-goin'  right  ter  that  there  bank  feller  hisself." 

"Yes,  yes!     Goon,  Judy!" 

"You  see,  ma'm,  I  done  remembered  the  name 
of  the  bank  an'  where  hit  was  an'  Mr.  Ward's  name 
an'  all,  on  'count  of  that  there  money  letter  what  you 
done  sent  'em  an'  us  bein'  so  worried  'bout  hit  never 
gittin'  there  an'  all  that.  An*  pap,  he  knows  er  man 
over  in  Gardner  what's  on  the  railroad,  you  see, 
what '11  let  him  have  money  enough  for  the  trip, — a 

250 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

licker-inan,  he  is, — an'  pap's  aimin'  ter  make  hit 
over  ter  Gardner  ter  git  the  money  in  time  ter  ketch 
that  there  early  mornin'  train.  Hit's  a  right  smart 
way  over  the  mountains,  but  I  reckon's  how  pap'll 
make  hit.  Boon's  pap  left,  I  got  ter  thinkin'  what  I'd 
done,  an'  the  more  I  studied  'bout  hit, — 'bout  Mr. 
Burns  a-havin'  ter  go  ter  prison,  an'  'bout  you-all 
a-carin'  for  him  the  way  you  does,  an'  'bout  how 
happy  you  was  over  his  book,  an' — an' — how  good 
you'd  been  ter  me, — the  sorrier  I  got,  'til  I  just 
couldn't  stand  a-thinkin'  'bout  hit  no  longer;  an' — 
an' — so  I  come  fast  as  I  could  ter  tell  you.  I  'lowed 
you'd  make  out  ter  fix  hit  some  way  so — Mr.  Burns 
won't  have  ter  go  ter  prison.  Couldn't  you-ali  send — 
send  a  telegraph  ter  the  bank  man,  er  some  chin'  ? 
I'd  git  it  inter  Thompsonville  for  you,  ma'm;  an' 
Mr.  Burns,  he  needn't  never  know  nothin'  'bout  hit." 

Auntie  Sue  was  dressing  when  Judy  finished 
speaking.  With  a  physical  strength  that  had  its 
source  in  her  indomitable  spirit,  she  moved  about 
the  room  making  the  preparations  necessary  to  her 
plan,  and  as  she  worked  she  talked  to  the  girl. 

"No,  Judy,  a  telegram  won't  do.  I  must  go  to 
Homer  Ward  myself.  That  morning  train  leaves 

251 


THE  KE-CKEATION  OF  BKIAN  KENT 

Thompsonville  at  six  o'clock.  You  must  slip  out  of 
the  house,  and  harness  'Old  Prince'  to  the  buggy  as 
fast  as  you  can.  You  will  drive  with  me  to  Thomp 
sonville,  and  bring  'Prince'  back.  You  can  turn 
him  loose  when  you  get  near  home,  and  he  will  come 
the  rest  of  the  way  alone.  You  must  not  let  Mr. 
Burns  nor  Betty  Jo  see  you,  because  they  mustn't 
know  anything  about  what  you  have  done.  Do  you 
understand,  child?" 

"Yes,  ma'm,"  said  Judy,  eagerly.  She  was  on  her 
feet  now. 

"You  can  go  to  the  neighbors  and  find  some  place 
to  stay  until  I  return,"  continued  Auntie  Sue. 

"You  don't  need  ter  worry  none  'bout  me,"  said 
Judy.  "I  kin  take  care  of  myself,  I  reckon.  But 
ain't  you  plumb  scared  ter  go  'way  on  the  cars  alone 
an'  you  so  old?" 

"Old!"  retorted  Auntie  Sue.  "I  have  not  felt  so 
strong  for  twenty  years.  There  is  nothing  for  me 
to  fear.  I  will  be  in  St.  Louis  to-morrow  night,  and 
in  Chicago  the  next  forenoon.  I  guess  I  am  not  so 
helpless  that  I  can't  make  a  little  journey  like  this. 
Homer  Ward  shall  never  send  my  boy  to  prison, — 
never, — bank  or  no  bank!  Go  on,  now,  and  get 

252 


THE  KE-CKEATIOX  OF  BKIA3T  KEXT 

'Prince'  and  the  buggy  ready.  We  must  not  miss 
that  train."  She  pushed  Judy  from  the  room,  and 
again  cautioned  her  not  to  awaken  Brian  or  Betty 
Jo. 

When  she  had  completed  her  preparations  for  the 
trip,  Auntie  Sue  wrote  a  short  note  to  Betty  Jo, 
telling  her  that  she  had  been  called  away  suddenly, 
and  that  she  would  return  in  a  few  days,  and  that 
she  was  obliged  to  borrow  Betty  Jo's  pocket-book. 
Grave  as  she  felt  the  situation  to  be,  Auntie  Sue 
laughed  to  herself  as  she  pictured  the  consternation 
of  Betty  Jo  and  Brian  in  the  morning. 

Silently,  the  old  lady  stole  into  the  girl's  room 
to  secure  the  money  she  needed  and  to  leave  her  let 
ter.  Then,  as  silently,  she  left  the  house,  and  found 
Judy,  who  was  waiting  with  "Old  Prince"  and  the 
buggy,  ready  to  start. 

The  station  agent  at  Thompsonville  was  not  a  little 
astonished  when  Auntie  Sue  and  Judy  appeared,  and, 
with  the  easy  familiarity  of  an  old  acquaintance 
greeted  her  with,  "Howdy,  Auntie  Sue!  "What  in 
thunder  are  you  doin'  out  this  time  of  the  day  ?  K"o 
bad  news,  I  hope?" 

"Oh,   no,   Mr.    Jackson,"    Auntie   Sue   answered 

253 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

easily.  "I'm  just  going  to  Chicago  for  a  little  visit 
with  an  old  friend.*7 

"Sort  of  a  vacation,  eh?"  returned  the  man  be 
hind  the  window,  as  he  made  out  her  ticket.  "Well, 
you  sure  have  earned  one,  Auntie  Sue.  It's  gittin' 
to  be  vacation  time  now,  too.  Bunch  of  folks  come 
in  yesterday  to  stay  at  the  clubhouse  for  a  spell. 
Pretty  wild  lot,  I'd  say, — wimmen  as  well  as  the 
men.  I  reckon  them  clubhouse  parties  don't  disturb 
you  much,  though,  if  you  be  their  nearest  neighbor, 
—do  they?" 

"They  never  have  yet,  Mr.  Jackson,"  she  returned. 
"Their  place  is  on  the  other  side  of  the  river,  and  a 
mile  above  my  house,  you  know.  I  see  them  in  their 
boats  on  The  Bend,  though,  and  once  in  a  while  they 
call  on  me.  But  the  Elbow  Eock  rapids  begin  in 
front  of  my  place,  and  the  clubhouse  people  don't 
usually  come  that  far  down  the  river." 

She  turned  to  Judy,  and,  with  the  girl,  went  out 
of  the  waiting  room  to  the  platform,  where  she  whis 
pered  :  "You  must  start  back  right  away,  Judy.  If 
your  father  is  on  the  train,  he  might  see  you." 

"What  if  pap  ketches  sight  of  you-all  ?"  Judy  re 
turned  nervously. 

254 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

"He  will  not  be  so  apt  to  notice  me  as  he  would 
you,"  she  returned,  "even  if  he  does  catch  a  glimpse 
of  me.  And  it  can't  be  helped  if  he  does.  I'll  be  in 
Chicago  as  quick  as  he  will,  and  I  know  I  will  see 
Mr.  Ward  first.  Go  on  now,  dear,  and  don't  let  Mr. 
Burns  or  Betty  Jo  see  you,  and  be  a  good  girl.  I 
feel  sure  that  everything  will  be  all  right." 

With  a  sudden  awkward  movement,  poor  Judy 
caught  the  old  gentlewoman's  hand  and  pressed  it  to 
her  lips ;  then,  turning,  ran  toward  the  buggy. 

When  the  train  arrived,  the  station  agent  came  to 
help  Auntie  Sue  with  her  handbag  aboard,  and  she 
managed  to  keep  her  friend  between  herself  and  the 
coaches,  in  case  Jap  Taylor  should  be  looking  from 
a  window.  As  the  conductor  and  the  agent  assisted 
her  up  the  steps,  the  agent  said:  "Mind  you  take 
good  care  of  her,  Bill.  Finest  old  lady  God- Almighty 
ever  made!  If  you  was  to  let  anything  happen  to 
her,  you  best  never  show  yourself  in  this  neighbor 
hood  again ;  We'd  lynch  you,  sure !" 

The  conductor  found  a  good  seat  for  his  lovely  old 
passenger,  and  made  her  as  comfortable  as  possible. 
As  he  punched  her  ticket,  he  said,  with  a  genial 
smile,  which  was  the  voluntary  tribute  paid  to  Auntie 

255 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

Sue  by  all  men:  "You  are  not  much  like  the  pas 
sengers  I  usually  carry  in  this  part  of  the  country, 
ma'm.  They  are  mostly  a  rather  rough-lookin'  lot." 

She  smiled  back  at  him,  understanding  perfectly 
his  intended  compliment.  "They  are  good  people, 
though,  sir, — most  of  them.  Of  course,  there  are 
some  who  are  a  little  wild,  sometimes,  I  expect." 

The  railroad  man  laughed  again,  shaking  his  head. 
"I  should  say  so.  You  ought  to  see  the  specimen 
I've  got  in  the  smoker.  I  picked  him  up  back  there 
at  Gardner.  Perhaps  you  have  heard  of  him — Jap 
Taylor.  He  is  about  the  worst  in  the  whole  country, 
I  reckon." 

"I  have  heard  of  him,"  she  returned.  "I  do  hope 
he  won't  come  into  this  coach." 

"Oh,  he  won't  start  anything  on  my  train," 
laughed  the  man  in  blue  reassuringly.  "He  would 
never  come  in  here,  anyhow.  Them  kind  always  stay 
in  the  smoker.  Seems  like  they  know  where  they 
belong.  He  is  half-scared  to  death  himself,  anyway ; 
he  is  going  to  Chicago,  too,  and  I'll  bet  it's  the  first 
time  in  his  life  he  has  ever  been  farther  from  these 
hills  than  Springfield." 


256 


CHAPTER  XX. 

BRIAN  AND  BETTY  JO  KEEP  HOUSE. 


Brian  went  to  the  barn  the  next  morn 
ing  he  found  "Old  Prince"  standing  at  the 
gate.  While  he  was  still  trying  to  find  some 
plausible  explanation  of  the  strange  incident,  after 
unharnessing  the  horse  and  giving  him  his  morning 
feed,  an  excited  call  from  Betty  Jo  drew  his  atten 
tion.  With  an  answering  shout,  he  started  for  the 
house.  The  excited  girl  met  him  halfway,  and  gave 
him  Auntie  Sue's  note. 

When  Brian  had  read  the  brief  and  wholly  inade 
quate  message,  they  stood  looking  at  each  other,  too 
mystified  for  speech.  Brian  read  the  note,  again, 
aloud,  speaking  every  word  with  slow  distinctness. 
"Well,  I'll  be  hanged!"  he  ejaculated,  at  the  close  of 
the  remarkable  communication,  staring  at  Betty  Jo. 
"It  wouldn't  in  the  least  surprise  me  if  we  were 
both  hanged  before  night,"  returned  Betty  Jo.  "After 
this  from  Auntie  Sue,  I  am  prepared  for  anything. 
What  on  earth  do  you  suppose  has  happened  ?" 

257 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

Brian  shook  his  head:    "It  is  too  much  for  me!" 

Together  they  went  to  the  house,  and  the  place 
seemed  strangely  deserted.  Every  possible  explana 
tion  that  suggested  itself,  they  discussed  and  re 
jected. 

"One  thing  we  can  depend  upon,"  said  Brian,  at 
last,  when  they  had  exhausted  the  resources  of  their 
combined  imaginations :  "Auntie  Sue  knows  exactly 
what  she  is  doing,  and  she  is  doing  exactly  the  right 
thing.  I  suppose  we  will  know  all  about  it  when 
she  returns." 

Betty  Jo  looked  again  at  the  note :  "  'I  will  be 
back  in  a  few  days/  "  she  read  slowly.  "  'Be  good 
children,  and  take  care  of  things.' ' 

Again,  they  regarded  each  other  wonderingly. 

Then  Betty  Jo  broke  the  silence  with  an  odd  little 
laugh :  "I  feel  like  we  were  cast  away  on  some  desert 
island,  don't  you?" 

"Something  like  that,"  Brian  returned.  Then,  to 
relieve  the  strain  of  the  situation,  he  added :  "I  sup 
pose  'Bess'  will  have  to  be  milked  and  the  chores 
finished  just  the  same." 

"And  I'll  get  breakfast  for  us,"  agreed  Betty  Jo,  as 
he  started  back  to  the  barn. 

258 


THE  KE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

In  the  safe  seclusion  of  the  stable,  with  no  one  but 
"Old  Prince"  and  "Bess'7  to  witness  his  agitation, 
Brian  endeavored  to  bring  his  confused  and  unruly 
thoughts  under  some  sort  of  control. 

"Several  days;  several  days."  The  words  re 
peated  themselves  with  annoying  persistency.  And 
they — Betty  Jo  and  he,  Brian  Kent — were  to  "take 
care  of  things" ; — they  were  to  keep  house  together ; 
— they  were  to  live  together,  alone, — in  the  log  house 
by  the  river, — alone.  She  was  even  then  preparing 
their  breakfast.  They  would  sit  down  at  the  table 
alone.  And  there  would  be  dinner  and  supper;  and 
the  evening, — just  for  them.  He  would  work  about 
the  place.  She  would  attend  to  her  household  duties. 
He  would  go  to  his  meals,  and  she  would  be  there 
expecting  him, — waiting  for  him.  And  when  the 
tasks  of  the  day  were  finished,  they  would  sit  on  the 
porch  to  watch  the  coming  of  the  night, — Betty  Jo 
and  he,  Brian  Kent —  "What  in  God's  name,"  the 
man  demanded  of  the  indifferent  "Bess,"  did  Auntie 
Sue  mean  by  placing  him  in  such  a  situation  ?  Did 
she  think  him  more  than  human  ? 

It  had  not  been  easy  for  Brian  to  maintain  that 
barrier  between  himself  and  Betty  Jo,  even  with  the 

259 


THE  KE-CKEATIOJST  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

constant  help  of  Auntie  Sue's  presence.  Many,  many 
times  he  had  barely  saved  himself  from  declaring 
his  love;  and,  now,  he  was  asked  to  live  with  her  in 
the  most  intimate  companionship  possible. 

For  the  only  time  in  his  life  Brian  Kent  was  al 
most  angry  at  Auntie  Sue.  "By  all  that  was  con 
sistent,  and  reasonable,  and  merciful,  and  safe,"  he 
told  himself,  "if  it  was  absolutely  necessary  for  the 
dear  old  lady  to  disappear  so  mysteriously,  why  had 
she  not  taken  Betty  Jo  along  ?" 

In  the  meantime,  while  Brian  was  confiding  his 
grievances  to  his  four-footed  companions  in  the  barn, 
Betty  Jo  was  expressing  herself  in  the  kitchen. 

"Betty  Jo,"  she  began,  as  she  raked  the  ashes  from 
the  stove  preparatory  to  building  the  fire,  "it  appears 
to  me  that  you  have  some  serious  considering  to  do, 
and" — with  a  glance  toward  the  barn,  as  she  went 
out  to  empty  the  ash-pan — "you  must  do  it  quickly 
before  that  man  comes  for  his  breakfast.  You  were 
very  right,  last  night,  in  your  decision,  to  go  away. 
It  is  exactly  what  you  should  have  done.  I  am  more 
than  ever  convinced  of  that,  this  morning.  But  you 
can't  go  now.  Even  if  Auntie  Sue  had  not  taken 
your  pocket-book  and  every  penny  in  it,  you  couldn't 

260 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

run  away  with  Auntie  Sue  herself  gone.  If  she 
hadn't  wanted  you  to  stay  right  here  for  some  very 
serious  reason,  Betty  Jo,  she  would  have  taken  you 
with  her  last  night.  Auntie  Sue  very  pointedly  and 
definitely  expects  you  to  be  here  when  she  returns. 
And  she  will  be  away  several  days, — several  days, 
Betty  Jo."  She  repeated  the  words  in  a  whisper. 
"And  during  those  several  days,  you  are  to  keep 
house  for  the  man  you  love; — the  man  who  loves 
you ; — the  man  whom  you  must  keep  from  telling  you 
his  love, — no  matter  how  your  heart  pleads  for  him 
to  tell  you,  you  must  not  permit  him  to  speak.  He 
will  be  coming  in  to  breakfast  in  a  few  minutes,  and 
you  will  sit  down  at  the  table  with  him, — across  the 
table  from  him, — facing  him, — Betty  Jo, — just 
like—" 

She  looked  in  the  little  mirror  that  hung  beside 
the  kitchen  window,  and,  with  dismay,  saw  her  face 
flushed  with  color  that  was  not  caused  by  the  heat 
of  the  stove.  "And  you  will  be  forced  to  look  at  him 
across  the  table,  and  he  will  look  at  you, — and — and 
you  must  not, — "  she  stamped  her  foot, — "you  dare 
not  look  like  that,  Betty  Jo. 

"And  then  there  will  be  the  dinner  that  you  will 

261 


THE  KE-CREATION  OF  BKIAJtf  KENT 

cook  for  Mm,  and  the  supper;  and  the  evenings  on 
the  poreh.  O  Lord!  Betty  Jo,  what  ever  will  you 
do?  How  will  you  ever  save  the  fineness  of  your 
love  ?  If  you  were  afraid  to  trust  yourself  with  the 
help  of  Auntie  Sue's  presence,  what  in  the  world  can 
you  do  without  her — and  you  actually  keeping  house 
with  him?  Oh,  Auntie  Sue!  Auntie  Sue!"  she 
groaned,  "you  are  the  dearest  woman  in  the  world 
and  the  best  and  wisest,  but  you  have  blundered  ter 
ribly  this  time !  Why  did  you  do  such  a  thing !  It  is 
not  fair  to  him !  It  is  not  fair  to  me !  It  is  not  fair 
to  our  love ! 

"All  of  which," — the  practical  Betty  Jo  declared 
a  moment  later,  wiping  her  eyes  on  the  corner  of  her 
apron,  and  going  into  the  other  room  to  set  the  table 
for  breakfast,— "all  of  which,  Betty  Jo,  does  not  in 
the  least  help  matters,  and  only  makes  you  more 
nervous  and  upset  than  you  are, 

"One  thing  is  certain  sure,"  she  continued,  while 
her  hands  were  busy  with  the  dishes  and  the  table 
preparations:  "If  we  can  endure  this  test,  we  need 
never,  never,  never  fear  that  anything  nor  anybody 
can  ever,  ever  make  us  doubt  the  genuineness  of  our 
love.  Auntie  Sue  has  certainly  arranged  it  most 

262 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BREAK  KENT 

beautifully  for  Brian  Kent  and  Betty  Jo  Williams 
to  become  thoroughly  acquainted." 

Betty  Jo  suddenly  paused  in  her  work,  and  stood 
very  still:  "I  wonder,"  she  said  slowly, — "can  it 
be, — is  it  possible, — what  if  Auntie  Sue  has  brought 
about  this  situation  for  that  very  reason  ?" 

"Breakfast  ready?"  cried  Brian  at  the  kitchen- 
door,  and  his  voice  was  so  hearty  and  natural  that 
the  girl  answered  as  naturally:  "It  will  be  as  soon 
as  you  are  ready  for  it.  I  forget,  do  you  like  your 
eggs  three  minutes  or  four  ?" 

They  really  managed  that  breakfast  very  well, 
even  if  they  did  sit  opposite  each  other  so  that  each 
was  forced  to  look  straight  across  the  table  into  the 
face  of  the  other.  Or,  perhaps,  it  was  because  they 
looked  at  each  other  so  straight  and  square  and 
frankly  honest  that  the  breakfast  went  so  well. 

And  because  the  breakfast  went  so  well,  they  man 
aged  the  dinner  and  the  supper  also. 

"I  have  been  thinking,"  said  Brian  at  the  close  of 
their  evening  meal,  looking  straight  into  the  gray 
eyes  over  the  table,  "perhaps  it  might  be  better  for 
you  to  stay  at  neighbor  Tom's  until  Auntie  Sue  re 
turns.  I'll  hitch  up  'Old  Prince'  and  drive  you  over, 

263 


THE  KE-CKEATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

if  you  say.  Or,  we  might  find  some  neighbor  woman 
to  come  here  to  live  with  us,  if  yoti  prefer." 

"You  don't  like  my  housekeeping,  then?"  asked 
Betty  Jo. 

"Like  it!"  exclaimed  Brian;  and  the  tone  of  his 
voice  approached  the  danger-point. 

Betty  Jo  said  quickly :  "I'll  tell  you  exactly  what 
I  think,  Mr.  Burns :  Auntie  Sue  said  we  were  to  be 
good  children,  and  take  care  of  things  until  she  re 
turned.  She  did  not  say  for  me  to  shirk  my  part  by 
going  to  neighbor  Tom's  or  by  having  any  one  come 
here.  Don't  you  think  we  can  do  exactly  what  Auntie 
Sue  said  ?" 

"Yes,"  returned  Brian,  heartily;  "I  am  sure  we 
can.  And  do  you  know, — come  to  think  about  it, — I 
believe  the  dear  old  lady  would  be  disappointed  in 
us  both  if  we  dodged  our — well, — "  he  finished  with 
emphasis, — "our  responsibilities." 

And  after  that,  somehow,  the  evening  on  the  porch 
went  as  well  as  the  breakfast  and  dinner  and  supper 
had  gone. 

It  was  the  second  day  of  their  housekeeping  that 
Betty  Jo  noticed  smoke  coming  from  the  stone  chim 
ney  of  the  clubhouse  up  the  river.  She  reported  her 

264 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

observation  to  Brian  when  he  came  in  from  his  work 
for  dinner.  During  the  afternoon,  they  both  saw 
boats  on  the  quiet  waters  of  The  Bend,  and  at  supper 
told  each  other  what  they  had  seen.  And  in  the 
evening  they  together  watched  the  twinkling  lights 
of  the  clubhouse  windows,  and  once  they  heard  voices 
and  laughter  from  somewhere  on  the  river  as  though 
a  boating  party  were  making  merry. 

Two  days  later,  Brian  and  Betty  Jo  were  just  fin 
ishing  dinner  when  a  step  sounded  on  the  porch,  and 
a  man  appeared  in  the  open  doorway. 

The  stranger  was  dressed  in  the  weird  and  flashy 
costume  considered  by  his  class  to  be  the  proper 
thing  for  an  outing  in  the  country,  and  his  face  be 
trayed  the  sad  fact  that,  while  he  was  mentally,  spir 
itually,  and  physically  greatly  in  need  of  a  change 
from  the  unclean  atmosphere  that  had  made  him  what 
he  was,  he  was  incapable  of  benefiting  by  more  whole 
some  conditions  of  living.  He  was,  in  fact,  a  perfect 
specimen  of  that  type  of  clubman  who,  in  order  to 
enjoy  fully  the  beautiful  life  of  God's  unspoiled 
world,  must  needs  take  with  him  all  of  the  sordid 
and  vicious  life  of  that  world  wherein  he  is  most  at 
home. 

265 


THE  RE-CKEATIOJST  OF  BKIAIST  KENT 

With  no  word  of  greeting,  he  said,  with  that  supe 
rior  air  which  so  many  city  folk  assume  when  ad 
dressing  those  who  live  in  the  country:  "Have  you 
people  any  fresh  vegetables  or  eggs  to  sell  ?" 

Brian  and  Betty  Jo  arose,  and  Brian,  stepping 
forward,  said,  with  a  smile:  "No,  we  have  nothing 
to  sell  here;  but  I  think  our  neighbor,  Mr.  Warden, 
just  over  the  hill,  would  be  glad  to  supply  you.  Won't 
you  come  in  ?" 

The  man  stared  at  Brian,  turned  an  appraising  eye 
on  Betty  Jo;  then  looked  curiously  about  the  room. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said,  removing  his  cap, 
"I  thought,  when  I  spoke,  that  you  were  natives.  My 
name  is  Green, — Harry  Green.  There  is  a  party  of 
us  stopping  at  the  clubhouse,  up  the  river,  there; — 
just  out  for  a  bit  of  a  good  time,  you  know.  We  are 
from  St.  Louis, — first  time  any  of  us  were  ever  in 
the  Ozarks, — friends  of  mine  own  the  clubhouse." 

"My  name  is  Burns,"  returned  Brian.  "We  noticed 
your  boats  on  the  river.  You  are  enjoying  your  out 
ing,  are  you  ?" 

Again  the  man  looked  curiously  from  Brian  to 
Betty  Jo.  "Oh,  yes ;  we  can  stand  it  for  awhile,"  he 
answered.  "We're  a  pretty  jolly  bunch,  you  see; — 

266 


THE  EE-CREATIOISr  OF  BKIAIST  KENT 

know  how  to  keep  things  going.  It  would  kill  me  if 
I  had  to  live  here  in  this  lonesome  hole  very  long, 
though.  Don't  you  find  it  rather  slow,  Mrs.  Burns  ?" 

Poor  Betty  Jo's  face  turned  fairly  crimson.  She 
could  neither  answer  the  stranger  nor  meet  his  gaze, 
but  stood  with  downcast  eyes ; — then  looked  at  Brian 
appealingly. 

But  Brian  was  as  embarrassed  as  Betty  Jo ;  while 
the  stranger,  as  he  regarded  them,  smiled  with  an 
expression  of  insolent  understanding. 

"I  guess  I  have  made  another  mistake,"  he  said, 
with  a  meaning  laugh. 

"You  have,"  returned  Brian,  sharply,  stepping  for 
ward  as  he  spoke;  for  the  man's  manner  was  un 
mistakable.  "Be  careful,  sir,  that  you  do  not  make 
another." 

Mr.  Green  spoke  quickly,  with  an  airy  wave  of  his 
hand :  "No  offense ;  no  offense,  I  assure  you."  Then 
as  he  moved  toward  the  door,  he  added,  still  with 
thinly  veiled  insolence :  "I  beg  your  pardon  for  in 
truding.  I  understand,  perfectly.  Good-afternoon, 
Mr.  Burns !  Good-afternoon,  miss !" 

Brian  followed  him  out  to  the  porch;  and  the 
caller,  as  he  went  down  the  steps,  turned  back  with 

267 


THE  EE-CEEATIOJST  OF  BKIAN  KENT 

another  understanding  laugh:  "I  say,  Burns,  you 
are  a  lucky  devil.  Don't  worry  about  me,  old  man. 
I  envy  you,  by  Jove!  Charming  little  nest.  Come 
over  to  the  club  some  evening.  Bring  the  little  girl 
along,  and  help  us  to  have  a  good  time.  So-long!" 

Mr.  Harry  Green  probably  never  knew  how  nar 
rowly  he  escaped  being  manhandled  by  the  enraged 
but  helpless  Brian. 

Brian  remained  on  the  porch  t  ntil  he  saw  the  man, 
in  his  boat,  leave  the  eddy  at  the  foot  of  the  garden 
and  row  away  up  the  river. 

In  the  house,  again,  the  two  faced  each  other  in 
dismay. 

Betty  Jo  was  first  to  recover :  "I  am  sure  that  it 
is  quite  time  for  Auntie  Sue  to  come  home  and  take 
charge  of  her  own  household  again.  Don't  you  think 
so,  Mr.  Burns  ?" 

And  Brian  Kent  most  heartily  agreed. 


268 


CHAPTER  XXL 

THE  WOMAN  AT  THE  WINDOW. 

| HE  members  of  the  clubhouse  party  were 
amusing  themselves  that  afternoon  in  the 
various  ways  peculiar  to  their  kind. 
At  one  end  of  the  wide  veranda  overlooking  the 
river  a  group  sat  at  a  card  table.  At  the  other  end 
of  the  roomy  lounging  place,  men  and  women,  lying 
at  careless  ease  in  steamer-chairs  and  hammocks, 
were  smoking  and  chatting  about  such  things  as  are 
of  interest  only  to  that  strange  class  who  are  edu 
cated  to  make  idleness  the  chief  aim  and  end  of  their 
existence.  On  the  broad  steps  leading  down  to  the 
tree-shaded  lawn,  which  sloped  gently  to  the  boat 
landing  at  the  river's  edge,  still  other  members  of 
the  company  were  scattered  in  characteristic  atti 
tudes.  Across  the  river,  in  the  shade  of  the  cotton- 
woods  that  overhang  the  bank,  a  man  and  a  woman 
in  a  boat  were  ostensibly  fishing.  In  a  hammock 
strung  between  two  trees,  a  little  way  from  the 
veranda,  lay  a  woman,  reading. 

269 


THE  EE-CEEATIOIST  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

Now  and  then  a  burst  of  shrill  laughter  broke  the 
quiet  of  the  surrounding  forest.  A  man  on  the  steps 
called  a  loud  suggestive  jest  to  the  pair  in  the  boat, 
and  the  woman  waved  her  handkerchief  in  answer. 
The  card-players  argued  and  laughed  over  a  point  in 
their  game.  Some  one  shouted  into  the  house  for* 
Jim,  and  a  negro  man  in  white  jacket  appeared. 
When  the  people  on  the  veranda  had  expressed  their 
individual  tastes,  the  one  who  had  summoned  the 
servant  called  to  the  woman  in  the  hammock  under 
the  tree,  "What  is  yours,  Martha  ?" 

Without  looking  up  from  her  book,  the  woman 
waved  her  hand,  and  answered,  "I  am  not  drinking 
this  time.  Thanks." 

A  chorus  of  derisive  shouts  and  laughter  came 
from  the  veranda.  But  the  woman  went  on  reading. 
"Oh,  let  her  alone!"  protested  some  one,  good-na 
turedly.  "She  was  going  a  little  strong,  last  night. 
She'll  be  all  right  by  and  by,  when  she  gets  started 
again." 

The  negro,  Jim,  had  returned  with  his  loaded  tray, 
and  was  passing  among  the  members  of  the  company 
with  his  assortment  of  glasses,  when  some  one  called 
attention  to  Harry  Green,  who  was  just  pulling  his 

270 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

boat  up  to  the  landing  after  his  visit  to  the  little  log 
house  down  the  river. 

A  boisterous  chorus  greeted  the  boatman :  "Hello, 
Harry!  Did  you  find  anything?  You're  just  in 
time.  What'll  you  have  ?" 

With  a  wave  of  greeting,  the  man  fastened  his 
boat  to  the  landing,  and  started  up  the  slope* 

"He'll  have  a  Scotch,  of  course!"  said  some  one. 
"Did  anybody  ever  know  him  to  take  anything  else  ? 
Go  and  get  it,  Jim.  He'll  be  nearly  dead  for  a  drink 
after  rowing  all  that  distance." 

The  woman  in  the  hammock  lowered  her  book,  and 
lay  watching  the  man  as  he  came  up  the  path  toward 
the  steps. 

Harry  Green,  who,  apparently,  was  a  person  of 
importance  among  them,  seated  himself  in  an  easy 
chair  on  the  veranda,  and  accepted  the  glass  prof 
fered  by  Jim. 

"Did  you  find  any  eggs,  Harry  ?"  demanded  one. 

The  man  first  refreshed  himself  with  a  long  drink ; 
then  looked  around  with  a  grin  of  amused  apprecia 
tion  :  "I  didn't  get  any  eggs,"  he  said ;  "but  I  found 
the  nest  all  right." 

A  shout  of  laughter  greeted  the  reply. 

271 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

"What  sort  of  nest,  Harry?  Duck?  Turkey? 
Hen?  Dove?  Or  rooster?"  came  from  different 
members  of  the  chorus. 

Raising  his  glass  as  though  offering  a  toast,  he 
answered:  "Love!  my  children;  love!" 

A  yell  of  delight  came  from  the  company,  accom 
panied  by  a  volley  of :  "A  love-nest !  Well,  what  do 
you  know  about  that!  Good  boy,  Harry!  Takes 
Harry  to  find  a  love-nest !  He's  the  boy  to  send  for 
eggs!  I  should  say,  yes!  Martha  will  like  that! 
Oh,  won't  she!" 

This  last  remark  turned  their  attention  toward 
the  woman  in  the  hammock,  and  they  called  to  her: 
"Martha!  Oh,  Martha!  Come  here!  You  better 
look  after  Harry!  Harry  has  found  a  love-nest! 
Told  you  something  would  happen  if  you  let  him  go 
away  alone!" 

Putting  aside  her  book,  the  woman  came  to  join 
the  company  on  the  veranda. 

She  was  rather  a  handsome  woman,  but  with  a 
suggestion  of  coarseness  in  form  and  features,  though 
her  face,  in  spite  of  its  too-evident  signs  of  dissipa 
tion,  was  not  a  bad  face. 

Seating  herself  on  the  top  step,  with  her  back 

272 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

against  the  post  in  an  attitude  of  careless  abandon 
ment,  she  looked  up  at  the  negro  who  stood  grinning 
in  the  doorway.  "Bring  me  a  highball,  Jim:  you 
know  my  kind."  Then  to  the  company:  "Some 
body  give  me  a  cigarette." 

Harry  tossed  a  silver  case  in  her  lap.  Another 
man,  who  sat  near,  leaned  over  her  with  a  lighted 
match. 

Expelling  a  generous  cloud  of  smoke  from  her 
shapely  lips,  she  demanded:  "What  is  this  you  are 
all  shouting  about  Harry  having  another  love-nest?" 

During  the  answering  chorus  of  boisterous  laugh 
ter  and  jesting  remarks,  she  drank  the  liquor  which 
the  negro  brought. 

Then  Harry,  pointing  out  Auntie  Sue's  house, 
which  was  easily  visible  from  where  they  sat,  re 
lated  his  experience.  And  among  the  many  conjec 
tures,  and  questions,  and  comments  offered,  no  one 
suggested  even  that  the  man  and  the  woman  living 
in  that  little  log  house  by  the  river  might  be  entirely 
innocent  of  the  implied  charge.  For  those  who  are 
themselves  guilty,  to  assume  the  guilt  of  others  m 
very  natural  and  altogether  human. 

In  the  moment's  quiet  which  followed  the  arrival 

273 


THE  KE-CKEATKOT  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

of  a  fresh  supply  of  drinks,  the  woman  called  Martha 
said :  "But  what  is  the  man  like,  Harry  ?  You  have 
enthused  quite  enough  about  the  girl.  Suppose  you 
tell  us  about  the  man  in  the  case." 

Harry  gave  a  very  good  description  of  Brian  Kent. 

"Oh,  damn!"  suddenly  cried  Martha,  shaking  her 
skirt  vigorously.  She  had  spilled  some  of  the  liquor 
from  her  glass. 

A  woman  on  the  outer  edge  of  the  circle  whispered 
to  her  nearest  neighbor,  and  a  hush  fell  over  the 
group. 

"Well,"  said  Martha,  drinking  the  liquor  remain 
ing  in  her  glass,  "why  the  devil  don't  we  find  out 
who  they  are,  if  we  are  so  curious?" 

"Find  out!  How?  We'll  find  out  a  lot!  What 
would  you  do, — ask  them  their  names  and  where  they 
are  from  ?"  came  from  the  company. 

"It  is  easy  enough,"  retorted  Martha.     "There  is 

that  native  girl  that  Molly  picked  up  the  day  we 

landed  here  to  help  her  in  the  kitchen.     She  must 

belong  in  this  neighborhood  somewhere.    I'll  bet  she 

.can  tell  us  something.     What  is  her  name?" 

"Judy, — Judy  Taylor.  Great  idea !  Good !  Send 
her  out  here,  Jim,"  responded  the  others. 

274 


THE  EE-CREATIOX  OF  BRIA3T  KENT 

When  the  deformed  mountain  girl  appeared  be 
fore  them,  she  looked  from  face  to  face  with  such  a 
frightened  and  excited  expression  on  her  sallow,  old- 
young  features,  and  such  a  wild  light  in  her  black 
beady  eyes,  that  they  regarded  her  with  silent  inter 
est. 

Judy  spoke  first,  and  her  shrill  monotone  empha 
sized  her  excited  state  of  mind :  "That  there  nigger 
said  as  how  Missus  Kent  was  a-wantin'  ter  see  me. 
Be  ary  one  of  youuns  sure  'nough  Missus  Kent  ?" 

The  group  drew  apart  a  little,  and  every  face  was 
turned  from  Judy  to  the  woman  sitting  on  the  top 
step  of  the  veranda  with  her  back  against  the  post. 

Judy  went  slowly  toward  the  woman,  her  beady 
eyes  fixed  and  staring  as  though  at  some  ghostly 
vision.  The  woman  rose  to  her  feet  as  Judy  paused 
before  her. 

"Be  you-all  Brian  Kent's  woman?'7  demanded 
Judy. 

The  excited  exclamation  from  the  company  and 
the  manner  of  the  woman  suddenly  aroused  the 
mountain  girl  to  a  realization  of  what  she  had  done 
in  speaking  Brian  Kent's  name.  With  an  expression 
of  frightened  dismay,  she  turned  to  escape;  but  the 

275 


.THE  EE-CKEATIO]ST  OF  BEIAIST  KENT 

group  of  intensely  interested  spectators  drew  closer. 
Every  one  waited  for  Martha  to  speak. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  slowly,  watching  the  mountain 
girl;  "I  am  Mrs.  Brian  Kent.  Do  you  know  my 
husband  ?" 

Judy's  black  beady  eyes  shifted  slyly  from  one 
face  to  another,  and  her  twisted  body  moved  un 
easily. 

"No,  ma'm ;  I  ain't  a-sayin'  I  knows  him  exactly. 
I  done  heard  tell  'bout  him  nigh  'bout  a  year  ago, 
when  there  was  some  men  from  the  city  come  through 
here  a-huntin'  him.  Everybody  'lows  as  how  he  was 
drowned  at  Elbow  Rock." 

"The  body  was  never  found,  though,"  murmured 
one  of  the  men  in  the  group. 

"Who  lives  in  that  little  log  house  over  there, 
Judy  ?"  Harry  Green  asked  suddenly,  pointing. 

"There?  Oh,  that  there's  Auntie  Sue's  place.  I 
'lowed  everybody  knowed  that,"  returned  the  girl. 

"Who  is  Auntie  Sue  ?"  came  the  next  question. 

One  of  the  women  answered,  before  Judy  could 
speak:  "Auntie  Sue  is  that  old-maid  school-teacher 
they  told  us  about.  Don't  you  remember,  Harry  ?" 


276 


THE  RE-CKEATIGX  OF  BKIAN  KEXT 

"Is  Auntie  Sue  at  home  now,  girl?"  asked  Mrs. 
Kent. 

Judy's  gaze  was  fixed  on  the  ground  as  she  re 
plied:  "I  don't  know,  ma'm.  I  ain't  got  no  truok 
with  anybody  on  yon  side  the  river." 

"Is  there  any  one  living  with  Auntie  Sue  ?"  asked 
some  one ;  and  in  the  same  breath  from  another  came 
the  question,  "Who  is  Mr.  Burns  ?" 

Judy  jerked  her  twisted  shoulders  and  threw  up 
her  head  with  an  impatient  defiance,  as  she  returned 
shrilly :  "I'm  a-tellin'  youuns  I  don't  know  nothin' 
'bout  nobody.  Hit  ain't  no  sort  er  use  for  youuns 
ter  pester  me.  I  don't  know  nothin'  'bout  hit,  an'  I 
wouldn't  tell  youuns  nothin'  if  I  did." 

And  with  this,  the  mountain  girl  escaped  into  the 
house. 

While  her  friends  on  the  veranda  were  looking  at 
each  other  in  questioning  silence,  Mrs.  Kent,  without 
a  word,  turned  and  walked  away  into  the  woods. 

As  she  disappeared  among  the  trees,  one  of  the 
men  said,  in  a  low  tone:  "You  better  go  after  her, 
Harry.  She  is  on,  all  right,  that  it's  Brian  Kent. 
She  never  did  believe  that  story  about  his  death,  you 


277 


THE  BE-CKEATION  OF  BKIAN  KENT 

know.  There  is  no  knowing  what  she'll  do  when  she 
gets  to  thinking  it  all  over.'7 

"It  is  a  darned  shame/'  exclaimed  one  of  the 
women,  "to  have  our  party  spoiled  like  this!" 

"Spoiled  nothing !"  answered  another.  "Martha  is 
too  good  a  sport  to  spoil  anything.  Go  on,  Harry. 
Cheer  her  up.  Bring  her  back  here.  We'll  all  help 
get  her  good  and  drunk  to-night,  and  she'll  be  all 
right." 

There  was  a  laugh  at  this,  and  some  one  said :  "A 
little  something  wouldn't  hurt  any  of  us  just  now, 
I'm  thinking.  Here,  Jim!" 

Harry  Green  found  Mrs.  Kent  sitting  on  the  river- 
bank  some  distance  above  the  boat  landing. 

She  looked  up  at  the  sound  of  his  approach,  but 
did  not  speak.  Dropping  down  beside  her,  the  man 
said:  "I'm  damned  sorry  about  this,  Martha.  I 
never  dreamed  I  was  starting  anything,  or  I  would 
have  kept  my  mouth  shut." 

"It  is  Brian,  all  right,  Harry,"  she  answered, 
slowly.  "It  is  funny,  but  he  has  been  on  my  mind 
all  day.  I  never  dreamed  that  it  was  this  part  of 
the  country  where  he  was  supposed  to  have  been 
drowned,  or  I  wouldn't  have  come  here." 

2Y8 


THE  EE-CKEATIOX  OF  BRIAN"  KENT 

"Well,  what  does  it  matter,  anyway?"  returned 
the  man.  "I  don't  see  that  it  can  make  any  differ 
ence.  We  don't  need  to  go  down  there  where  he  is, 
and  it  is  damned  certain  that  they  won't  call  on  us." 

Looking  out  over  the  river,  che  woman  spoke  as  if 
thinking  aloud:  "This  is  just  the  sort  of  place  he 
would  love,  Harry — the  river  and  hills  and  woods. 
He  never  cared  for  the  city — always  wanted  to  get 
away  into  the  country  somewhere.  Tell  me,  what  is 
she  really  like  ?  Does  she  look  like — like — well, — 
like  any  of  our  crowd  ?" 

One  by  one,  the  man  picked  a  number  of  pebbles 
from  among  the  dead  leaves  and  the  short  grass 
within  reach  of  his  hand,  as  he  answered:  "Oh,  I 
was  just  kidding  when  I  raved  about  her  to  the 
bunch."  One  by  one,  he  flipped  the  bits  of  stone, 
into  the  water.  "She  really  doesn't  amount  to  much. 
Honestly,  I  hardly  noticed  her." 

The  woman  continued  speaking  as  though  thinking 
her  thoughts  aloud :  "Brian  was  a  good  man,  Harry. 
That  bank  affair  was  really  my  fault.  He  never 
would  have  done  such  a  thing  if  I  hadn't  devilled 
him  all  the  time  for  more  money,  and  made  such  a 
fuss  about  his  wasting  so  much  time  in  his  everlast' 

279 


THE  BE-CBEATI0N  OF  BKIAE"  KENT 

Ing  writing.  I'd  hate  to  have  him  caught  and  sent 
to  the  'pen'  now." 

•  "You're  a  good  sport,  Martha,"  he  returned  heart 
ily.  "I  know  just  how  you  feel  about  it.  And  I 
can  promise  you  that  there  is  not  one  of  our  crowd 
that  will  ever  whisper  a  thing.  They  are  not  that 
kind,  and  you  know  how  they  all  like  you.  Come, 
dear.  Don't  bother  your  head  about  it  any  more.  I 
don't  like  to  see  you  like  this.  Let  us  go  up  to  the 
house,  and  show  them  how  game  you  are, — shall 
we*" 

He  put  his  arm  about  her,  but  the  woman  gently 
pushed  him  away.  "Don't  do  that,  now,  Harry.  Let 
me  think." 

"That  is  just  what  you  must  not  do,"  he  retorted, 
with  a  laugh.  "Thinking  can't  help  matters.  Come, 
let  us  go  get  a  drink.  That  is  what  you  need." 

She  looked  at  him  some  time  before  she  answered ; 
then,  with  a  quick  movement,  she  sprang  to  her  feet : 
"All  right!  You're  on!"  she  cried,  with  a  reckless 
laugh.  "But  you'll  go  some  if  you  keep  up  with  me 
to-night," 

And  so,  that  evening,  while  Brian  Kent  and  Betty 
Jo  from  the  porch  of  the  little  log  house  by  the  river 

280 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

watched  the  twinkling  lights  of  the  clubhouse  win 
dows,  the  party  with  mad  merriment  tried  to  help  a 
woman  to  forget. 

But  save  for  the  unnatural  brightness  of  her  eyes . 
and  the  heightened  color  in  her  face,  drink  seemed 
to  have  little  effect  on  Martha  Kent  that  night.  When 
at  a  late  hour  the  other  members  of  the  wild  com 
pany,  in  various  flushed  and  dishevelled  stages  of 
intoxication,  finally  retired  to  their  rooms,  Martha, 
in  her  apartment,  seated  herself  at  the  window  to 
look  away  over  the  calm  waters  of  The  Bend  to  a 
single  light  that  showed  against  the  dark  mountain 
side.  The  woman  did  not  know  that  the  light  she 
saw  was  in  Brian  Kent's  room. 

Long  after  Betty  Jo  had  said  good-night,  Brian 
walked  the  floor  in  uneasy  wakefulness.  The  meet 
ing  with  the  man  Green  and  his  too-evident  thoughts 
as  to  the  relations  of  the  man  and  woman  who  were 
living  together  in  the  log  house  by  the  river  filled 
Brian  with  alarm;  while  the  very  presence  of  the 
man  from  the  city  awoke  old  apprehensions  that  in 
his  months  of  undisturbed  quiet  in  Auntie  Sue's 
backwoods  home  had  almost  ceased  to  be.  Through 
Auntie  Sue's  teaching  and  influence ;  his  work  on  his 

281 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

book;  the  growing  companionsliip  of  Betty  Jo  and 
their  love,  Brian  had  almost  ceased  to  think  of  that 
absconding  bank  clerk  who  had  so  recklessly  launched 
himself  on  a  voyage  to  the  unknown  in  the  darkness 
of  that  dreadful  night.  But,  now,  it  all  came  back 
to  him  with  menacing  strength. 

The  man,  Green,  would  talk  to  his  companions  of 
his  visit  to  the  log  house  that  afternoon.  He  would 
tell  what  he  had  discovered.  Curiosity  would  lead 
others  of  the  clubhouse  party  to  call.  Some  one 
might  remember  the  story  of  the  bank  clerk,  who 
was  supposed  to  have  lost  his  life  in  that  neighbor 
hood,  but  whose  body  was  never  found.  There  might 
even  be  one  in  the  party  who  knew  the  former  clerk. 
Through  them  the  story  would  go  back  to  the  outside 
world.  There  would  be  investigations  by  those  whose 
business  it  was  never  to  forget  a  criminal  who  had 
escaped  the  law. 

Brian  felt  his  Re-Creation  to  be  fully  established ; 
but  what  if  his  identity  should  be  discovered  before 
the  restitution  he  would  make  should  be  also  accom 
plished  ?  And  always,  as  he  paced  to  and  fro  in  his 
little  room  in  the  log  house,  there  was,  like  a  deep 


282 


THE  RB-CEEATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

undercurrent  in  the  flow  of  his  troubled  thought,  his 
love  for  Betty  Jo. 

It  is  little  wonder  that,  to  Brian  Kent,  that  night, 
the  voices  of  the  river  were  filled  with  fearful  doubt 
and  sullen,  dreadful  threatenings. 

And  what  of  the  woman  who  watched  the  tiny 
spot  of  light  that  marked  the  window  of  the  room 
where  the  re-created  Brian  Kent  kept  his  lonely  vigil  ? 
Did  she,  too,  hear  the  voices  of  the  river  ?  Did  she 
feel  the  presence  of  that  stream  which  poured  its 
dark  flood  so  mysteriously  through  the  night  between 
herself  and  the  man  yonder? 

Away  back,  somewhere  in  the  past,  the  currents 
of  their  lives  in  the  onward  flow  of  the  river  had 
drawn  together.  For  a  period  of  time,  their  life- 
currents  had  mingled,  and,  with  the  stream,  had 
swept  onward  as  one.  Other  influences — swirls  and 
eddies  and  counter-currents  of  other  lives — had 
touched  and  intermingled  until  the  current  that  was 
the  man  and  the  current  that  was  the  woman  had 
drawn  apart.  For  months,  they  had  not  touched; 
and,  now,  they  were  drawing  nearer  to  each  other 
again.  Would  they  touch?  Would  they  again  min- 


283 


THE  RE-CKEATIOlSr  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

gle  and  become  one?  What  was  this  mysterious, 
unseen,  unknown,  but  always-felt,  power  of  the  river 
that  sets  the  ways  of  its  countless  currents  as  it 
sweeps  ever  onward  in  its  unceasing  flow  ? 

The  door  of  her  room  opened.  Harry  Green  en 
tered  as  one  assured  of  a  welcome.  The  woman  at 
the  window  turned  her  head,  but  did  not  move.  Go 
ing  to  her,  the  man,  with  an  endearing  word,  offered 
a  caress ;  but  she  put  him  aside.  "Please,  Harry, — 
please  let  me  be  alone  to-night  ?" 

"Why,  Martha,  dear!  What  is  wrong?"  he  pro 
tested,  again  attempting  to  draw  her  to  him. 

Resisting  more  vigorously,  she  answered :  "E very- 
thing  is  wrong !  You  are  wrong !  I  am  wrong !  All 
life  is  wrong !  Can't  you  understand  ?  Please  leave 


me." 


The  man  drew  back,  and  spoke  roughly  in  a  tone 
of  disgust:  "Hell!  I  believe  you  love  that  bank 
clerk  as  much  as  you  ever  did!" 

"Well,  and  suppose  that  were  true,  Harry?"  she 
answered,  wearily.  "Suppose  it  were  true, — that  I 
did  still  love  my  husband?  Could  that  make  any 
difference  now?  Can  anything  ever  make  any  dif 
ference  now?  You  will  tire  of  me  before  long,  just 

284 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BKIAltf  KENT 

as  you  have  grown  tired  of  the  others  who  were  be 
fore  me.  Don't  you  suppose  I  know  ?  You  and  our 
friends  have  taught  me  many  things,  Harry.  I  know, 
now,  that  Brian's  dreams  were  right.  That  his 
dreams  could  never  be  realized,  does  not  make  them 
foolish  nor  wrong.  His  dreams  that  seemed  so  fool 
ish — such  impossible  ideals — were  more  real,  after 
all,  than  this  life  that  we  think  so  real.  We  are  the 
dreamers, — we  and  our  kind, — and  our  awakening  is 
as  sure  to  come  as  that  river  out  there  is  sure  of 
reaching  the  sea." 

The  man  laughed  harshly:  "You  are  quite  poet 
ical,  to-night.  I  believe  I  like  you  better,  though, 
when  you  talk  sense." 

"I  am  sorry,  Harry,"  she  returned.  "Please  don't 
be  cross  with  me !  Go  now, — please  go !" 

And  something  forced  the  man  to  silence.  Slowly, 
he  left  the  room.  The  woman  locked  the  door.  Re 
turning  to  the  window,  she  fell  on  her  knees,  and 
stretched  her  hands  imploringly  toward  the  tiny  spot 
of  light  that  still  shone  against  the  dark  shadow  of 
the  mountain-side. 

Between  the  mighty  walls  of  tree-clad  hills  that 
lifted  their  solemn  crests  into  the  midnight  sky,  the 

285 


THE  KE-CEEATION  OF  BKIAN"  KENT 

dark  river  poured  the  sombre  strength  of  its  innum 
erable  currents, — terrible  in  its  awful  power ;  dreadful 
in  its  mysterious  and  unseen  forces ;  irresistible  in  its 
ceaseless,  onward  rush  to  the  sea  of  its  final  and  in 
finite  purpose ! 

And  here  and  there  on  the  restless,  ever-moving 
surface  of  the  shadowy,  never-ending  flood  twinkled 
the  reflection  of  a  star. 


286 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

AT  THE  EMPIRE  CONSOLIDATED  SAVINGS  BANK. 

|  HE  President  of  the  Empire  Consolidated 
Savings  Bank  looked  up  from  the  papers  on 
his  desk  as  his  secretary  entered  from  the 
adjoining  room  and  stood  before  him. 

"Well,  George  P 

The  secretary  smiled  as  he  spoke:  "Mr.  Ward, 
there  is  an  old  lady  out  here  who  insists  that  you 
will  see  her.  The  boys  passed  her  on  to  me,  because, 
— well,  she  is  not  the  kind  of  woman  that  can  be  re 
fused.  She  has  no  card,  but  her  name  is  Wakeneld. 
She—'7 

The  dignified  President  of  the  Empire  Consoli 
dated  Savings  Bank  electrified  his  secretary  by 
springing  from  his  chair  like  a  schoolboy  from  his 
seat  at  the  tap  of  the  teacher's  dismissing  bell. 
"Auntie  Sue !  I  should  say  she  couldn't  be  refused ! 
Where  is  she  ?"  And  before  the  secretary  could  col 
lect  his  startled  thoughts  to  answer,  Homer  T.  Ward 
was  out  of  the  room. 

287 


[THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

[When  the  smiling  secretary,  the  stenographers,  and 
other  attending  employees  had  witnessed  a  meeting 
between  their  dignified  chief  and  the  lovely  old  lady, 
which  strengthened  their  conviction  that  the  great 
financier  was  genuinely  human,  President  Ward  and 
Auntie  Sue  disappeared  into  the  private  office. 

"George,"  said  Mr.  Ward,  as  he  closed  the  door  of 
that  sacred  inner  sanctuary  of  the  Empire  Consoli 
dated  Savings  Bank,  "remember  I  am  not  in  to  any 
one; — from  the  Secretary  of  the  Treasury  to  the 
Sheriff,  I  am  not  in." 

"I  understand,  sir,"  returned  the  still  smiling 
George.  And  from  that  moment  until  Homer  T. 
Ward  should  open  the  door,  nothing  short  of  a  regi 
ment  could  have  interrupted  the  interview,  between 
Auntie  Sue  and  her  old  pupil. 

Placing  the  dear  old  lady  tenderly  in  a  deep, 
leather-upholstered  chair,  Mr.  Ward  stood  before  her 
as  though  trying  to  convince  himself  that  she  was 
real;  while  his  teacher  of  those  long-ago,  boyhood 
days  gazed  smilingly  up  at  him. 

"What  in  the  name  of  all  that  is  unexpected  are 
you  doing  here,  Auntie  Sue  ?"  he  demanded ;  "and 
why  is  not  Betty  Jo  with  you  ?  Isn't  the  girl  ever 

288 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

coming  home  ?    There  is  nothing  the  matter  with  her, 
is  there?     Of  course  not,  or  you  would  have  wired 


me." 


It  was  not  at  all  like  the  bank  president  to  ask 
so  many  questions  all  at  once. 

Auntie  Sue  looked  around  the  private  office 
curiously,  then  smilingly  back  to  the  face  of  the  finan 
cier. 

"Do  you  know,  Homer,"  she  said  with  her  chuck 
ling  little  laugh,  "I — I — am  almost  afraid  of  you  in 
here.  Everything  is  so  grand  and  rich-looking;  and 
there  were  so  many  men  out  there  who  tried  to  tell 
me  you  would  not  see  me.  I — I  am  glad  I  didn't 
know  it  would  be  like  this,  or  I  fear  I  never  could 
have  found  the  courage  to  come." 

Homer  T.  Ward  laughed,  and  then — rather  full- 
waisted  as  he  was — went  down  on  one  knee  at  the 
arm  of  her  chair  so  as  to  bring  his  face  level  with 
her  eyes. 

"Look  at  me,  Auntie  Sue,"  he  said ;  "look  straight 
through  me,  just  as  you  used  to  do  years  and  years 
ago,  and  tell  me  what  you  see." 

And  the  dear  old  lady,  with  one  thin  soft  hand 
on  his  heavy  shoulder,  answered,  as  she  looked: 

289 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

"Why,  I  see  a  rather  naughty  boy,  whom  I  ought  to 
spank  for  throwing  spitballs  at  the  old  schoolroom 
ceiling,"  she  retorted.  "And  I  am  not  a  bit  afraid 
to  do  it  either.  So  sit  right  over  there,  sir,  and  listen 
to  me." 

They  laughed  together  then;  and  if  Auntie  Sue 
wiped  her  eyes  as  the  schoolboy  obediently  took  his 
seat  in  the  big  chair  at  the  banker's  desk,  Homer  T. 
Ward's  eyes  were  not  without  a  suspicious  moisture. 

"Tell  me  about  Betty  Jo  first,"  the  man  insisted. 
"You  know,  Auntie  Sue,  the  girl  grows  dearer  to 
me  every  year." 

"Betty  Jo  is  that  kind  of  a  girl,  Homer,"  Auntie 
Sue  answered. 

"I  suppose  it  is  because  she  is  all  I  have  to  love," 
he  said,  "but,  you  know,  ever  since  Sister  Grace  died 
and  left  the  fatherless  little  kid  to  me,  it  seems  like 
all  my  plans  have  centered  around  her;  and  now 
that  she  has  finished  her  school ;  has  travelled  abroad, 
and  gone  through  with  that  business-college  course, 
I  am  beginning  to  feel  like  we  should  sort  of  settle 
down  together.  I  am  glad  for  her  to  be  with  you  this 
summer,  though,  for  the  finishing  touches ;  and  when 
she  comes  home  to  stay,  you  are  coming  with  her." 

290 


THE  KE-CREATIOX  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

Auntie  Sue  shook  her  head,  smiling:  "Now, 
Homer,  you  know  that  is  settled :  I  will  never  leave 
my  little  log  house  by  the  river  until  I  have  watched 
the  last  sunset.  You  know,  my  dear  boy,  that  I 
would  be  miserable  in  the  city." 

It  was  an  old  point  often  argued  by  them,  and  the 
man  dismissed  it,  now,  with  a  brief:  "We'll  see 
about  that  when  the  time  comes.  But,  why  didn't 
you  bring  Betty  Jo  with  you  ?" 

"Because,"  Auntie  Sue  answered,  "I  came  away 
hurriedly,  on  a  very  important  trip,  for  only  a  day, 
and  it  is  necessary  for  her  to  stay  and  keep  house 
while  I  am  gone.  The  child  must  learn  to  cook, 
Homer,  even  if  she  is  to  inherit  all  your  money." 

"I  know,"  answered  the  banker; — "the  same  as 
you  make  me  work  when  I  visit  you.  But  your  com 
ing  to  me  sounds  rather  serious,  Auntie  Sue.  .What 
is  your  trouble  ?" 

The  dear  old  lady  laughed,  nervously;  for,  to  tell 
the  truth,  she  did  not  quite  know  how  she  was  going 
to  manage  to  present  Brian  Kent's  case  to  Homer 
T.  "Ward  without  presenting  more  than  she  was  at 
this  time  ready  to  reveal. 

"Why,  you  see,  Homer,"  she  began,  "it  is  not 
291 


THE  KE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

really  my  trouble  as  much  as  it  is  yours,  and  it  is 
not  yours  as  much  as  it  is — " 

"Betty  Jo's  ?"  he  asked  quickly,  when  she  hesi 
tated. 

"No!  no!"  she  cried.  "The  child  doesn't  even 
know  why  I  am  here.  Just  try  to  forget  her  for  a 
few  minutes,  Homer." 

"All  right,"  he  said ;  "but  you  had  me  worried  for 
a  minute." 

Auntie  Sue  might  have  answered  that  she  was 
somewhat  worried  herself;  but,  instead,  she  plunged 
with  desperate  courage:  "I  came  to  see  you  about 
Brian  Kent,  Homer." 

It  is  not  enough  to  say  that  the  President  of  the 
Empire  Consolidated  Savings  Bank  was  astonished. 
"Brian  Kent  ?"  he  said  at  last.  "Why,  Auntie  Sue, 
I  wrote  you  nearly  a  year  ago  that  Brian  Kent  was 
dead." 

"Yes,  I  know;  but  he  was  not — that  is,  he  is  not. 
But  the  Brian  Kent  your  detectives  were  hunting 
was — I  mean — is." 

Homer  T.  Ward  looked  at  his  old  teacher  as  though 
he  feared  she  had  suddenly  lost  her  mind. 

"It  is  like  this,  Homer,"  Auntie  Sue  explained :  "A 

292 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

few  days  after  your  detective,  Mr.  Ross,  called  on 
me,  this  stranger  appeared  in  the  neighborhood.  No 
one  dreamed  that  he  was  Brian  Kent,  because,  you 
see,  he  was  not  a  bit  like  the  description." 

''Full  beard,  I  suppose?''  commented  the  banker, 
grimly. 

"Yes:  and  every  other  way,"  continued  Auntie 
Sue.  "And  he  has  been  working  so  hard  all  winter; 
and  everybody  in  the  country  respects  and  loves  him 
so ;  and  he  is  one  of  the  best  and  truest  men  I  ever 
knew;  and  he  is  planning  and  working  to  pay  back 
every  cent  he  took;  and  I  cannot — I  will  not — let 
you  send  him  to  prison  now." 

The  lovely  old  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  banker's 
face  with  sweet  anxiety. 

Homer  T.  Ward  was  puzzled.  Strange  human 
problems  are  often  presented  to  men  in  his  position ; 
but,  certainly,  this  was  the  strangest; — his  old 
teacher  pleading  for  his  absconding  clerk  who  was 
supposed  to  be  dead. 

At  last  he  said,  with  gentle  kindness :  "But,  why 
did  you  come  to  tell  me  about  him,  Auntie  Sue  ?  He 
is  safe  enough  if  no  one  knows  who  he  is." 

"That  is  it!"  she  cried.  "Some  one  found  out 
293 


THE  KE-CKEATKXN"  OF  BEIAN  KENT 

about  him,  and  is  coming  here  to  tell  you,  for  the  re 
ward." 

The  banker  whistled  softly.  "And  you — you — 
grabbed  a  train,  and  beat  'em  to  it!"  he  exclaimed. 
"Well,  if  that  doesn't—" 

Auntie  Sue  clasped  her  thin  hands  to  her  breast, 
and  her  sweet  voice  trembled  with  anxious  fear; 
"You  won't  send  that  poor  boy  to  prison,  now,  will 
you,  Homer?  It — it — would  kill  me  if  such  a  ter 
rible  thing  were  to  happen  now.  Won't  you  let  him 
go  free,  so  that  he  can  do  his  work, — won't  you, 
Homer  ?  I — I — "  The  strain  of  her  anxiety  was 
almost  too  much  for  the  dear  old  gentlewoman's 
physical  strength,  and  as  her  voice  failed,  the  tears 
streamed  down  the  soft  cheeks  unheeded. 

In  an  instant  the  bank  president  was  again  on  his 
knees  beside  her  chair. 

"Don't,  Auntie  Sue :  don't,  dear !  Why,  you  know 
I  would  do  anything  in  the  world  you  asked,  even 
if  I  wanted  to  send  the  fellow  up;  but  I  don't.  I 
wouldn't  touch  him  for  the  world.  It  is  a  thousand 
times  better  to  let  him  go  if  he  is  proving  himself 
an  honest  man.  Please,  dear,  don't  feel  so.  Why, 
I  will  be  glad  to  let  him  off.  I'll  help  him,  Auntie 

294 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

Sue.  I — I — am  as  glad  as  you  are  that  we  didn't 
get  him.  Please  don't  feel  so  about  it.  There,  there, 
— it  is  all  right,  now." 

So  he  comforted  and  reassured  her  until  she  was 
able  to  smile  through  her  tears.  "I  knew  I  could 
depend  on  you,  Homer." 

A  few  minutes  later,  she  said:  "And  what  about 
that  man  who  is  coming  to  claim  the  reward, 
Homer  ?" 

"Never  you  mind  him!"  cried  the  banker;  "I'll 
fix  that.  But,  tell  me,  Auntie  Sue,  where  is  young 
Kent  now  ?" 

"He  is  working  in  the  neighborhood,"  she  re 
turned. 

He  looked  at  her  shrewdly.  "You  have  seen  a  lot 
of  him,  have  you  ?" 

"I  have  seen  him  occasionally,"  she  answered. 

Homer  T.  Ward  nodded  his  head,  as  if  well  pleased 
with  himself.  "You  don't  need  to  tell  me  any  more. 
I  understand,  now,  exactly.  It  is  very  clear  what  has 
reformed  Brian  Kent ;  you  have  been  up  to  your  old 
tricks.  It  is  a  wonder  you  haven't  taken  him  into 
your  house  to  live  with  you, — to  save  him  from  asso 
ciating  with  bad  people." 

295 


THE  EE-CKEATIO]ST  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

He  laughed,  and  when  Auntie  Sue  only  smiled,  as 
though  humoring  him  in  his  little  joke,  he  added: 
"By  the  way,  has  Betty  Jo  seen  this  latest  patient 
of  yours?  What  does  she  think  of  his  chances  for 
complete  recovery  ?" 

"Yes,"  Auntie  Sue  returned,  calmly;  "Betty  Jo 
has  seen  him.  But,  really,  Homer,  I  have  never 
asked  her  what  she  thought  of  him." 

"Do  you  know,  Auntie  Sue,"  said  the  banker,  re 
flectively,  "I  never  did  believe  that  Brian  Kent  was 
a  criminal  at  heart." 

"I  know  he  is  not,"  she  returned  stoutly.  "But, 
tell  me,  Homer,  how  did  it  ever  happen?" 

"Well,  you  see,"  he  answered,  "young  Kent  had 
a  wife  who  couldn't  somehow  seem  to  fit  into  his  life. 
Ross  never  went  into  the  details  with  me,  fully,  be 
cause  that,  of  course,  had  no  real  bearing  on  the 
fact  that  he  stole  the  money  from  the  bank.  But  it 
seems  that  the  youngster  was  rather  ambitious, — 
studied  a  lot  outside  of  business  hours  and  that  sort 
of  thing.  I  know  he  made  his  own  way  through 
business  college  before  he  came  to  us.  The  wife  didn't 
receive  the  attention  she  thought  she  should  have,  I 


296 


THE  RE-CREATIOX  OF  BRIAX  KEXT 

suppose.  Perhaps  she  was  right  at  that.  Anyway, 
she  wanted  a  good  time; — wanted  him  to  take  her 
out  more,  instead  of  spending  his  spare  time  digging 
away  at  his  books.  And  so  it  went  the  usual  way, — 
she  found  other  company.  Rather  a  gay  set,  I  fancy ; 
at  least  it  led  to  her  needing  more  money  than  he 
was  earning,  and  so  he  helped  out  his  salary,  think 
ing  to  pay  it  back  before  he  was  caught,  I  suppose. 
Then  the  crash  came, — some  other  man,  you  know, — 
and  Brian  skipped,  which,  of  course,  put  us  next  to 
his  stealing.  I  don't  know  what  has  become  of  the 
woman.  The  last  Ross  knew  of  her  she  was  living 
in  St.  Louis,  and  running  with  a  pretty  wild  bunch, 
— glad  to  get  rid  of  Brian,  I  expect.  She  couldn't 
have  really  cared  so  very  much  for  him. 

"Do  you  know,  Auntie  Sue,  I  have  seen  so  many 
cases  like  this  one.  I  have  been  glad,  many  times, 
that  I  never  married.  And  then,  again,  sometimes, 
I  have  seen  homes  that  have  made  me  sorry  I  never 
took  the  chance.  I  am  glad  you  saved  the  boy, 
Auntie  Sue :  I  am  mighty  glad." 

"You  have  made  me  very  happy,  Homer,"  Auntie 
Sue  returned.  "But  are  you  sure  you  can  fix  it 


297 


THE  R£-OKEATIO»  OF  BKIAN  KENT 

about  that  reward  ?  The  man  who  is  coming  to  claim 
it  will  make  trouble,  won't  he,  if  he  is  not  paid, 
somehow  ?" 

"Yes,  I  expect  he  would,"  returned  the  president, 
thoughtfully.  "And  my  directors  might  have  some 
thing  to  say.  And  there  are  the  Burns  people  and 
the  Bankers'  Association  and  all.  Hum-m-m!" 

Homer  T.  Ward  considered  the  matter  a  few  mo 
ments,  then  he  laughed.  "I'll  tell  you  what  we  will 
do,  Auntie  Sue;  we  will  let  Brian  Kent  pay  the  re 
ward  himself.  That  would  be  fair,  wouldn't  it?" 

Auntie  Sue  was  sure  that  Brian  would  agree  that 
it  was  a  fair  enough  arrangement;  but  she  did  not 
see  how  it  was  to  be  managed. 

Then  her  old  pupil  explained  that  he  would  pay  the 
reward-money  to  the  man  who  was  coming  to  claim 
it,  and  thus  satisfy  him,  and  that  the  bank  would 
hold  the  amount  as  a  part  of  the  debt  which  Brian 
was  expected  to  pay. 

Auntie  Sue  never  knew  that  President  Ward  him 
self  paid  to  the  bank  the  full  amount  of  the  money 
stolen  by  Brian  Kent  in  addition  to  the  reward- 
money  which  he  personally  paid  to  Jap  Taylor,  in 
order  to  quiet  him,  and  thus  saved  Brian  from  tho 

298 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

publicity  that  surely  would  have  followed  any  other 
course. 

It  should  also  be  said  here  that  Judy's  father 
never  again  appeared  in  the  Ozarks ;  at  least,  not  in 
the  Elbow  Rock  neighborhood.  It  might  be  that  Jap 
Taylor  was  shrewd  enough  to  know  that  his  reputa 
tion  would  not  permit  him  to  show  any  considerable 
sum  of  money,  where  he  was  known,  without  starting 
an  investigation;  and  for  men  of  his  type  investiga 
tions  are  never  to  be  desired. 

Or  it  is  not  unlikely  that  the  combination  of  money 
and  the  city  proved  the  undoing  of  the  moonshiner, 
and  that  he  came  to  his  legitimate  and  logical  end 
among  the  dives  and  haunts  of  his  kind,  to  which  he 
would  surely  gravitate. 


299 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

IN  THE  ELBOW  ROCK  RAPIDS. 

HE  day  following  that  night  of  Brian  Kent's 
uneasy  wakefulness  was  a  hard  day  for  the 
man  and  the  woman  in  the  little  log  house 
by  the  river. 

For  Brian,  the  morning  dawned  with  a  sense  of 
impending  disaster.  He  left  his  room  while  the  sky 
was  still  gray  behind  the  eastern  mountains,  and  the 
mist  that  veiled  the  brightness  of  the  hills  seemed 
to  hide  in  its  ghostly  depths  legions  of  shadowy  spir 
its  that  from  his  past  had  assembled  to  haunt  him. 
The  sombre  aisles  and  caverns  of  the  dimly  lighted 
forest  were  peopled  with  shadowy  memories  of  that 
life  which  he  had  hoped  would  never  again  for  him 
awake.  And  the  river  swept  through  its  gray  world 
to  the  crashing  turmoil  at  Elbow  Rock  like  a  thing 
doomed  to  seek  forever  in  its  own  irresistible  might 
the  destruction  of  its  ever-living  self. 

As  one  moving  in  a  world  of  dreams,  he  went  about 
his  morning's  work.  "Old  Prince"  whinnied  his 

300 


THE  EE-CEEATIOX  OF  BRIAN  KEXT 

usual  greeting,  but  received  no  answer.  "Bess"  met 
him  at  the  barnyard  gate,  but  he  did  not  speak.  The 
sun  leaped  above  the  mountain-tops,  and  the  world 
was  filled  with  the  beauty  of  its  golden  glory.  From 
tree  and  bush  and  swaying  weed,  from  forest  and 
pasture,  and  garden  and  willow-fringed  river-bank, 
the  birds  voiced  their  happy  greetings  to  the  new 
day.  But  the  man  neither  saw  nor  heard. 

When  he  went  to  the  house  with  his  full  milk- 
pail,  and  Betty  Jo  met  him  at  the  kitchen-door  with 
her  cheery  "Good-morning!"  he  tried  resolutely  to 
free  himself  from  the  mood  which  possessed  him,  but 
only  partially  succeeded.  Several  times,  as  the  two 
faced  each  other  across  the  breakfast  table,  Brian 
saw  the  gray  eyes  filled  with  questioning  anxiety,  as 
though  Betty  Jo,  also,  felt  the  presence  of  some  for 
bidding  spectre  at  the  meal. 

After  several  vain  attempts  to  find  something  they 
could  talk  about,  Betty  Jo  boldly  acknowledged  the 
situation  by  saying :  "What  in  the  world  is  the  mat 
ter  with  us,  this  morning,  Mr.  Burns  ?  I  am  pos 
sessed  with  the  feeling  that  there  is  some  one  or 
something  behind  me.  I  want  to  look  over  my  shoul 
der  every  minute." 

301 


THE  KE-CKEATIOX  OF  BKIAN  KENT 

At  her  words,  Brian  involuntarily  turned  his  head 
for  a  quick  backward  glance. 

"There!"  cried  Betty  Jo,  with  a  nervous  laugh, 
not  at  all  like  her  normal,  well-poised  self.  "You 
feel  it,  too!" 

Brian  forced  a  laugh  in  return :  "It  is  the  weather, 
I  guess."  He  tried  to  speak  with  casual  ease. 
"The  atmosphere  is  full  of  electricity  this  morning. 
We'll  have  a  thunder-storm  before  night,  probably." 

"And  was  it  the  electricity  in  the  air  that  kept  you 
tramping  up  and  down  your  room  last  night  until 
almost  morning?"  she  demanded  abruptly,  with  her 
characteristic  opposition  to  any  evasion  of  the  ques 
tion  at  issue. 

Brian  retorted  with  a  smile:  "And  how  do  you 
know  that  I  tramped  up  and  down  my  room  last 
night?" 

The  color  in  Betty  Jo's  cheeks  deepened  as  she 
answered,  "I  did  not  sleep  very  well  either." 

"But,  I  surely  did  not  make  noise  enough  for  you 
to  hear  in  your  room  ?"  persisted  Brian. 

The  color  deepened  still  more  in  Betty  Jo's  cheeks, 
as  she  answered  honestly:  "I  was  not  in  my  room 


302 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

when  I  heard  you."  She  paused,  and  when  he  only 
looked  at  her  expectantly,  but  did  not  speak,  contin 
ued,  in  a  hesitating  manner  quite  unlike  her  matter- 
of-fact  self:  "When  I  could  not  sleep,  and  felt  so 
as  though  there  were  somebody  or  something  in  the 
house  that  had  no  business  here,  I  became  afraid,  and 
opened  my  door  so  I  would  not  feel  so  much  alone; 
and  then  I  saw  the  light  under  the  door  of  your 
room,  and, — "  she  hesitated,  but  finished  with  a  lit 
tle  air  of  defiance, — "and  I  went  and  listened  out 
side  your  door  to  see  if  you  were  up." 

"Yes  ?"  said  Brian  Kent,  gently. 

"And  when  I  heard  you  walking  up  and  down,  I 
wanted  to  call  to  you ;  but  I  thought  I  better  not.  It 
made  me  feel  better,  though,  just  to  know  that  you 
were  there;  and  so,  pretty  soon,  I  went  back  to  my 
room  again." 

"And  then?"  said  Brian. 

"And  then,"  confessed  Betty  Jo,  "whatever  it  was 
that  was  keeping  me  awake  came  back,  and  went  on 
keeping  me  awake  until  I  was  simply  forced  to  go 
to  you  for  help  again." 

Poor  Betty  Jo!      She  knew  very  well  that  she 


303 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

ought  not  to  be  saying  those  things  to  the  man  who, 
while  he  listened,  could  not  hide  the  love  that  shone 
in  his  eyes. 

And  Brian  Kent,  as  he  thought  of  this  woman, 
whom  he  loved  with  all  the  strength  of  his  best  self, 
creeping  to  the  door  of  his  room  for  comfort  in  the 
lonely  night,  scarcely  dared  trust  himself  to  speak. 
At  last,  when  their  silence  was  becoming  unbearable, 
he  said,  gently :  "You  poor  child !  Why  didn't  you 
call  to  me?" 

And  Betty  Jo,  hearing  in  his  voice  that  which  told 
her  how  near  he  was  to  the  surrender  that  would 
bring  disaster  to  them  both,  was  aroused  to  the  de 
fense.  The  gray  eyes  never  wavered  as  she  answered, 
bravely:  "I  was  afraid  of  that,  too." 

And  so  Betty  Jo  confessed  her  love  that  answered 
so  to  his  need;  but,  in  her  very  confession,  saved 
their  love  from  themselves.  If  she  had  lowered  her 
eyes — 

Brian  Kent,  in  reverent  acknowledgment,  bowed 
his  head  before  her.  Then,  rising,  he  walked  to  the 
window,  where  he  stood  for  some  time  looking  out, 
but  seeing  nothing. 

"It  was  that  horrid  man  coming  yesterday  that  has 
304 


THE  RE-CEEATION  OF  BRIAN  KEXT 

so  upset  us,"  said  Betty  Jo,  at  last.  "We  were  get 
ting  on  so  beautifully,  too.  I  wish  he  had  gone 
somewhere  else  for  his  vegetables  and  eggs  and 
things!" 

Brian  was  able  to  smile  at  this  as  he  turned  to 
face  her  again,  and  they  both  knew  that, — for  that 
time,  at  least, — the  danger-point  was  safely  past 

"I  wish  so,  too,"  he  agreed;  "but  never  mind; 
Auntie  Sue  will  be  home  in  a  day  or  two,  and  then 
everything  will  be  all  right  again." 

But  when  he  had  taken  his  hat  and  was  starting 
out  for  the  day's  work,  Betty  Jo  asked,  "What  are 
you  doing  to-day?" 

"I  was  going  to  work  on  the  fence  around  the 
clearing,"  he  answered.  "Why?" 

"I — I — wish  you  could  find  something  to  do 
nearer  the  house,"  came  the  slow  answer.  "'Couldn't 
you  work  in  the  garden,  perhaps  ?" 

"I  should  say  I  could !"  he  returned  heartily. 

All  that  forenoon,  as  Betty  Jo  went  about  her 
household  duties  she  felt  the  presence  of  the  thing 
that  filled  her  BO  with  fear  and  dread.  With  vigor 
ous  determination  she  scolded  herself  for  being  so 
foolish,  and  argued  with  herself  that  it  was  all  a 

305 


THE  KE-CKEATIOISr  OF  BKLAN  KENT 

nervous  fancy  born  of  her  restless  night.  But,  the 
next  moment,  she  would  start  with  a  sudden  fear  and 
turn  quickly  as  if  to  face  some  one  whose  presence 
she  felt  behind  her.  And  Brian,  too,  as  he  worked 
in  the  garden,  caught  himself  often  in  the  act  of 
pausing  to  look  about  with  nervous  apprehension. 

During  the  noonday  meal  they  made  a  determined 
effort  to  laugh  at  themselves,  and  by  the  time  dinner 
was  over  had  almost  succeeded.  But  when  Brian, 
as  he  pushed  back  his  chair,  said,  jestingly,  "Well, 
am  I  to  work  in  the  garden  again  this  afternoon?" 
Betty  Jo  answered,  emphatically,  "Indeed  you  are! 
I  will  not  stay  another  minute  in  this  house  alone. 
Goodness  knows  what  I  will  do  to-night!" 

There  was  no  jest  in  the  man's  voice  as  he  ap.- 
swered:  "I'll  tell  you  what  you  will  do  to-night, — 
you  will  go  to  bed  and  you  will  go  to  sleep.  You 
will  leave  the  door  to  your  room  wide-open,  and  I 
shall  lie  right  there  on  that  couch,  so  near  that  a 
whisper  from  you  will  reach  me.  We  will  have  no 
more  of  this  midnight  prowling,  I  promise  you.  If 
any  ghost  dares  appear,  we — " 

The  reassuring  words  died  on  Brian  Kent's  lips. 


306 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

His  eyes,  looking  over  Betty  Jo's  shoulders,  were 
fixed  and  staring,  and  the  look  on  his  face  sent  a 
chill  of  horror  to  the  girl's  heart.  She  dared  not 
move  nor  look  around  as  he  sat  like  a  man  turned 
to  stone. 

A  woman's  laugh  broke  the  dead  silence. 

With  a  scream,  Betty  Jo  sprung  to  her  feet  and 
whirled  about. 

As  one  in  a  trance,  Brian  Kent  arose  and  stood 
beside  her. 

The  woman,  who  stood  in  the  open  doorway, 
laughed  again. 

Martha  Kent's  heavy  drinking  the  night  before, 
when  her  clubhouse  friends  in  a  wild  debauch  had 
tried  to  help  her  to  forget,  was  the  climax  of  many 
months  of  like  excesses.  The  mood  in  which  she  had 
sent  the  man  Green  from  her  room  was  the  last  de 
spairing  flicker  of  her  better  instincts.  Moved  by 
her  memories  of  better  things, — of  a  better  love  and 
dreams  and  ideals, — she  had  spent  a  little  hour  or 
two  in  sentimental  regret  for  that  which  she  had  so 
recklessly  cast  aside.  And  then,  because  there  was 
within  her  no  foundation  of  abiding  principle  for 


307 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

her  sentiment,  she  had  again  put  on  the  character 
which  had  so  separated  her  from  the  life  of  the  man 
to  whom  she  was  married,  indeed,  but  with  whom  she 
was  never  one.  With  the  burning  consciousness  of 
what  she  might  have  been  and  of  what  she  was  ever 
tormenting  her,  she  sank,  as  the  hours  passed,  deeper 
and  deeper  into  the  quicksands  of  physical  indulgence 
until,  in  her  mad  determination  to  destroy  utterly 
her  ability  to  feel  remorse,  she  lost  all  mental  con 
trol  of  herself,  and  responded  to  every  insane  whim 
of  her  drink-disordered  brain. 

As  she  stood  there,  now,  in  the  doorway  of  that 
little  log  house  by  the  river, — face  to  face  with  the 
man  and  the  woman  who,  though  they  were  united 
in  their  love,  were  yet  separated  by  the  very  fact  of 
her  existence, — she  was,  in  all  her  hideous,  but  piti 
ful,  repulsiveness,  the  legitimate  creation  of  those 
life-forces  which  she  so  fitly  personified. 

Betty  Jo  instinctively  drew  closer  to  Brian's  side. 

"Hello,  Brian,  dear!"  said  the  woman,  with  a 
drunken  leer.  "Thought  I'd  call  to  see  you  in  your 
charming  love-nest  that  Harry  Green  raved  so  about. 
Can't  you  introduce  me  to  your  little  sweetheart  ?" 


308 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

"No?"  she  continued,  and  laughed  again.  Then 
coming  an  unsteady  step  toward  them,  she  added, 
thickly:  "Very  well,  Brian,  old  sport;  you  won't 
introduce  me, — I'll  have  to  introduce  myself."  She 
grinned  with  malicious  triumph  at  Betty  Jo :  "Don't 
be  frightened,  my  dear.  It's  all  right.  I'm  nobody 
of  importance, — just  his  wife, — that's  all, — just  his 
wife." 

Betty  Jo,  with  a  little  cry,  turned  to  the  man  who 
stood  as  if  stricken  dumb  with  horror.  "Brian?" 
she  said.  "Oh,  Brian  ?" 

It  was  the  first  time  she  had  ever  addressed  him 
by  his  given  name,  and  Brian  Kent,  as  he  looked, 
saw  in  those  gray  eyes  no  hint  of  doubt  or  censure, 
but  only  the  truest  love  and  sympathy.  Betty  Jo 
had  not  failed  in  the  moment  of  her  supreme  test 
ing. 

"It's  true,  all  right,  isn't  it,  Brian  ?"  said  Martha 
Kent  "I'm  his  wife  fast  enough,  my  dear.  But 
you  don't  need  to  worry, — you  two.  I'm  a  good 
sport, — I  am.  I've  had  my  fun.  No  kick  coming 
from  me.  Just  called  to  pay  my  respects, — that's 
all.  So-long,  Brian,  old  sport!  Good-bye,  my  dear!" 


309 


THE  KE-CKEATION  OF  BKIAN  KENT 

With  an  uncertain  wave  of  her  hand,  she  staggered 
through  the  doorway  and  passed  from  their  sight. 

In  the  little  log  house  by  the  river  the  two  who 
had  kept  the  fineness  of  their  love  stood  face  to 
face. 

For  Betty  Jo,  the  barrier  which  Brian  Kent  had 
maintained  between  them  to  protect  her  from  his 
love  was  no  longer  a  thing  unknown.  But  the  reve 
lation,  coming  as  it  did,  had  brought  no  shadow  of 
distrust  or  doubt  of  the  man  to  whom  she  had  so 
fully  entrusted  herself.  It  had,  indeed,  only  strength 
ened  her  faith  in  him  and  deepened  her  love. 

For  one  glorious  triumphal  moment  the  very  soul 
of  the  man  exulted  in  the  truth  which  Betty  Jo  made 
known  to  him.  Then  he  turned  slowly  away,  for 
he  dared  not  trust  himself  to  look  at  her  a  moment 
longer. 

With  bowed  head  he  paced  up  and  down  the  room. 
He  went  to  the  table  which  held  Auntie  Sue's  sew 
ing-basket,  and  fingered  the  trifles  there.  Then, 
slowly,  he  passed  through  the  open  door  to  the  porch, 
where  Betty  Jo,  through  the  window,  near  which 
she  stood,  saw  him  look  away  over  the  river  and  the 
mountains. 

310 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

Suddenly,  she  saw  him  start,  and  stare  intently  at 
some  nearer  object  that  had  caught  his  attention.  As 
Betty  Jo  watched,  he  moved  to  the  edge  of  the  porch, 
and,  stooping,  grasped  the  railing  with  his  hands ; — 
his  head  and  shoulders  were  thrust  forward ;  his  lips 
were  parted ;  his  whole  attitude  was  that  of  the  most 
intense  and  excited  interest.  Then,  straightening  up, 
he  threw  back  his  head,  and  laughed  aloud.  But  his 
laughter  alarmed  the  girl,  who  ran  to  the  door,  cry 
ing,  "What  is  it,  Brian  ?" 

"Look!"  he  shouted,  madly,  and  pointed  toward 
the  river.  "Look,  Betty  Jo !" 

Martha  Kent,  alone  in  one  of  the  clubhouse  boats, 
was  rowing  with  drunken  clumsiness  toward  the  head 
of  the  Elbow  Rock  rapids. 

The  woman's  friends  had  missed  her,  and,  guess 
ing,  from  some  remark  she  had  made,  where  she  had 
gone,  had  sent  four  men  of  the  party  after  her;  for 
they  realized  that  she  was  in  no  condition  to  be  alone 
in  a  boat  on  the  river,  particularly  on  that  part  of 
the  stream  near  Auntie  Sue's  place.  After  leaving 
Brian  and  Betty  Jo,  she  had  gone  back  to  her  boat 
in  the  eddy  at  the  foot  of  the  garden,  and  was  pulling 


311 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN"  KENT 

out  into  the  stream  when  she  saw  her  friends  ap 
proaching.  With  a  drunken  laugh,  she  waved  her 
hand,  and  began  rowing  from  them  directly  toward 
the  swift  water.  The  men  shouted  for  her  to  stop, 
and  pulled  with  all  their  strength.  But  the  woman, 
taking  their  calls  as  a  challenge,  rowed  the  harder, 
while  every  awkward  pull  of  the  oars  carried  her 
nearer  the  deadly  grip  of  the  current. 

Betty  Jo,  as  she  reached  Brian's  side,  and  saw 
what  was  happening  on  the  river,  grasped  the  man's 
arm  appealingly,  with  a  cry :  "Brian !  Brian !  She 
is  going  into  the  rapids !  She  will  be  carried  down 
to  Elbow  Rock !" 

But  Brian  Kent,  for  the  moment,  was  beside  him 
self.  All  that  he  had  suffered, — -all  that  the  woman 
out  there  on  the  river  had  cost  him  in  anguish  of 
soul, — all  that  she  had  taken  from  him  of  happiness, 
— came  before  him  with  blinding  vividness;  and 
now, — now, — in  her  drunkenness,  she  was  making 
her  own  way  to  her  own  destruction. 

"Of  course  she  is !"  he  shouted,  in  answer  to  Betty 
Jo.  "Her  friends  yonder  are  driving  her  to  it! 
Could  anything  be  more  fitting?" 

As  though  grasped  by  powerful  unseen  hands  be- 

312 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BEIA^  KENT 

neath  the  surface,  the  boat  shot  forward.  The  woman, 
feeling  the  sudden  pull  of  the  current,  stopped  row 
ing,  and  looked  about  as  if  wondering  what  had  hap 
pened.  Her  friends,  not  daring  to  follow  closer  to 
the  dangerous  water,  were  pulling  madly  for  the 
landing  at  the  foot  of  the  garden.  The  boat  in  the 
middle  of  the  river  moved  faster. 

"Look,  Betty  Jo,  look!"  shouted  the  man  on  the 
porch,  madly.  "It's  got  her  now — the  river  has  got 
her— look!" 

\Yith  a  scream  of  fear,  the  woman  in  the  boat 
dropped  her  oars,  and  grasped  the  gunwale  of  the 
little  craft. 

Brian  Kent  laughed. 

Betty  Jo  shrank  back  from  him,  her  eyes,  big 
with  horror,  fixed  upon  his  face.  Then,  with  a  quick 
movement,  she  sprang  toward  him  again,  and,  catch 
ing  his  arm,  shook  him  with  all  her  strength  and 
struck  him  again  and  again  with  her  fist. 

"Brian!    Brian!"  she  cried.    "You  are  insane!" 

The  man  looked  down  at  her  for  an  instant  with 
an  expression  of  bewildered  astonishment  on  his  face, 
as  one  awakened  from  a  dream.  He  raised  his  hand 
and  drew  it  across  his  forehead  and  eyes. 

313 


THE  BE-OBSATION  OF  BKIAIST  KENT 

The  boat  with  the  helpless  woman  was  already  past 
the  front  of  the  house. 

Betty  Jo  cried  again  as  if  calling  the  man  she 
loved  from  a  distance:  "Brian!  Brian!" 

With  a  sudden  movement,  the  man  jerked  away 
from  her.  The  next  instant,  he  had  leaped  over  the 
railing  of  the  porch  to  the  ground  below  and  was 
running  with  all  his  might  toward  the  river,  at  an 
angle  which  would  put  him  opposite  or  a  little  below 
the  boat  when  he  reached  the  bank. 

With  a  sob,  Betty  Jo  followed  as  fast  as  she  could. 

As  Brian  Kent  raced  toward  the  river's  edge,  the 
powerful  current  drew  the  boat  with  the  woman  into 
the  first  rough  water  of  the  rapids,  and,  as  the  skiff 
was  shaken  and  tossed  by  the  force  that  was  sweeping 
it  with  ever-increasing  speed  toward  the  wild  turmoil 
at  Elbow  Kock,  the  woman  screamed  again  and  again 
for  help. 

The  warring  forces  of  the  stream  whirled  the  little 
craft  about,  and  she  saw  the  man  who  was  near  ing 
the  bank.  She  rose  to  her  feet  in  the  rocking  boat, 
and  stretched  out  her  arms, — calling  his  name, 
"Brian!  Brian!  Brian!"  Then  the  impact  of  the 
boat  against  a  larger  wave  of  the  rapids  brought  her 

314 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

to  her  knees,  and  she  clung  to  the  thwarts  with 
piteous  cries. 

Betty  Jo  and  the  clubhouse  men,  who  had  over 
taken  her,  saw  Brian  as  he  reached  the  river  opposite 
the  boat.  For  a  little  way  he  raced  the  tumbling 
waters  until  he  had  gained  a  short  distance  ahead  of 
the  skiff;  then  they  saw  him,  without  an  instant's 
pause,  leap  from  the  high  bank  far  out  into  the  boil 
ing  stream. 

Running  along  the  bank,  the  helpless  watchers 
saw  the  man  fighting  his  way  toward  the  boat.  One 
moment,  he  disappeared  from  sight,  dragged  beneath 
the  surface  by  the  powerful  currents  with  which  he 
wrestled.  The  next  instant,  the  boiling  waters  would 
toss  him  high  on  the  crest  of  a  rolling  wave,  only 
to  drag  him  down  again  a  second  later.  But,  always, 
he  drew  nearer  and  nearer  the  object-  of  his  struggle, 
while  the  rapids  swept  both  the  helpless  woman  and 
the  tossing  boat  and  the  swimming  man  onward  to 
ward  the  towering  cliff,  and  the  thunder-roar  of  the 
mad  waters  below  grew  louder  and  louder. 

The  splendid  strength  of  arms  and  shoulders  which 
Brian  Kent  had  acquired  by  his  months  of  work 
with  his  ax  on  the  timbered  mountain-side  sustained 

315 


THE  EE-CEEATION  OF  BKIAN  KENT 

him  now  in  his  need.  With  tremendous  energy,  he 
breasted  the  might  of  the  furious  river.  To  the 
watchers  it  seemed  at  times  that  it  was  beyond  the 
power  of  human  muscles  to  endure  the  terrific  strain. 
Then  he  gained  the  boat,  and  they  saw  him  striving 
with  desperate  energy  to  drag  it  toward  the  opposite 
shore  and  so  into  the  currents  that  would  carry  it 
past  the  menacing  point  of  the  cliff  and  perhaps  to 
the  safety  of  the  quiet  water  below. 

All  that  human  strength  could  do  in  that  terrible 
situation,  Brian  Kent  did.  But  the  task  was  beyond 
the  power  of  mortal  man. 

Eor  an  instant  the  breathless  watchers  on  the  bank 
thought  there  was  a  chance ;  but  the  waters  with  mad 
fury  dragged  their  victims  back,  and,  with  terrific 
power,  hurled  them  forward  toward  the  frowning 
rocks. 

It  was  quickly  over. 

In  that  wild  turmoil  of  the  boiling,  leaping,  seeth 
ing,  lashing,  hammering  waves,  the  boat,  with  the 
woman  who  crouched  on  her  knees  on  the  bottom,  and 
the  man  who  clung  to  the  side  of  the  craft,  appeared 
for  a  second  lifted  high  in  the  air.  The  next  instant, 
the  crash  of  breaking  wood  sounded  above  the  thun- 

316 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

dering  roaring  of  the  waters.  The  man  and  the 
woman  disappeared.  The  wreck  of  the  boat  was 
flung  again  and  again  against  the  cliff,  until,  bat 
tered  and  broken,  it  was  swept  away  around  the 
point. 

Against  the  dark  wall  of  rock  Brian  Kent's  head 
and  shoulders  appeared  for  an  instant,  and  they  saw 
that  he  held  the  woman  in  his  arms.  The  furious 
waters  closed  over  them.  For  the  fraction  of  a  sec 
ond,  the  man's  hand  and  arm  appeared  again  above 
the  surface,  and  was  gone. 

Betty  Jo  sank  to  the  ground  with  a  low  cry  of 
anguish,  and  hid  her  face. 

Another  moment,  and  she  was  aroused  by  a  loud 
shout  from  one  of  the  men  who  had  caught  a  glimpse 
of  the  river's  victims  farther  out  at  the  point  of  the 
rocky  cliff. 

Springing  to  her  feet,  Betty  Jo  started  madly  up 
the  trail  that  leads  over  the  bluff.  The  men  followed. 

Immediately  below  Elbow  Rock  there  is  a  deep 
hole  formed  by  the  waters  that  pour  around  the 
point  of  the  cliff,  and  below  this  hole  a  wide  gravelly 
bar  pushing  out  from  the  Elbow  Rock  side  of  the 
stream  forces  the  main  volume  of  the  river  to  the 

317 


THE  KE-CKEATION  OF  BBIAN  KENT 

opposite  bank.  In  the  shallow  water  against  the 
upper  side  of  the  bar  they  found  them. 

With  the  last  flicker  of  his  consciousness,  Brian 
Kent  had  felt  his  feet  touch  the  bottom  where  the 
water  shoals  against  the  bar,  and,  with  his  last 
remaining  strength,  had  dragged  himself  and  the 
body  of  the  woman  into  the  shallows. 

Betty  Jo  wa#  no  hysterical  weakling  to  spend  the 
priceless  seconds  of  such  a  time  in  senseless  ravings. 
The  first-aid  training  which  she  had  received  at  school 
gave  her  the  necessary  knowledge  which  her  native 
strength  of  character  and  practical  common  sense  en 
abled  her  to  apply.  Under  her  direction,  the  men 
from  the  clubhouse  worked  as  they  probably  never  had 
worked  before  in  all  their  useless  lives. 

But  the  man  and  the  woman  whose  life-currents 
had  touched  and  mingled, — drawn  apart  to  flow  ap 
parently  far  from  each  other,  but  drawn  together 
again  to  once  more  touch,  and,  as  one,  to  endure  the 
testing  of  the  rapids, — the  man  and  the  woman  had 
not  brought  to  the  terrible  ordeal  the  same  strength. 

One  was  drawn  into  the  Elbow  Eock  rapids  by  the 
careless  indifference  and  the  reckless  spirit  that  was 
born  of  the  life  she  had  chosen;  by  her  immediate 

318 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

associates  and  environment ;  and  by  the  circumstances 
that  were,  at  the  last  analysis,  of  her  own  making. 

The  other  braved  the  same  dangers,  strong  in  the 
splendid  spirit  that  had  set  him  against  such  terrible 
odds  to  attempt  the  woman's  rescue.  Erom  his  work 
on  the  timbered  mountain-side,  from  his  life  in  the 
clean  atmosphere  of  the  hills,  and  from  the  spiritual 
and  mental  companionship  of  that  little  log  house 
by  the  river,  he  had  brought  to  his  testing  the  splen 
did  strength  which  enabled  him  to  endure. 

Somewhere  in  that  terrible  conflict  with  the  wild 
waters  at  Elbow  Rock,  while  the  man  whose  life 
she  had  so  nearly  ruined  by  her  wantonness  was 
fighting  to  save  her,  the  soul  of  Martha  Kent  went 
from  the  bruised  and  battered  body  which  Brian  drew 
at  last  from  the  vicious  grasp  of  the  currents. 

But  the  man  lived. 


319 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

JUDY'S  RETURN. 

\~N  the  early  evening  twilight  of  the  day  follow 
ing  the  tragedy  at  Elbow  Rock,  Betty  Jo  was 
sitting  on  the  porch,  to  rest  for  a  few  minutes 
in  the  fresh  air,  after  long  hours  of  watching  beside 
Brian's  bed. 

A  neighbor  woman  had  come  to  help,  but  Betty 
Jo  would  not  leave  the  side  of  the  man  she  loved  as 
he  fought  his  way  slowly  out  of  the  dark  shadow  of 
the  death  that  had  so  nearly  conquered  him.  Nor, 
indeed,  would  Brian  let  her  go,  for  even  in  those 
moments  when  he  appeared  most  unconscious  of  the 
life  about  him,  he  seemed  to  feel  her  presence.  All 
through  the  long,  long  hours  of  that  anxious  night 
and  day  she  had  watched  and  waited  the  final  issue ; 
• — feeling  the  dark  messenger  very  close  at  times,  but 
gaining  hope  as  the  hours  passed,  and  her  lover  won 
his  way  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  light ; — courageous 
always; — giving  him  the  best  of  her  strength,  so 


320 


THE  RECREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

far  as  it  was  possible  to  give  him  anything ; — making 
him  feel  the  steady,  enduring  fullness  of  her  love. 

At  last,  they  felt  that  the  victory  was  won.  The 
doctor,  satisfied  that  the  crisis  was  safely  past,  went 
his  way  to  visit  other  patients.  By  evening,  Brian 
was  resting  so  easily  that  the  girl  had  stolen  away 
for  a  few  minutes,  leaving  the  neighbor  to  call  her 
if  he  should  waken. 

Betty  Jo  had  been  on  the  porch  but  a  short  time 
when  a  step  sounded  on  the  gravel  walk  that  led  from 
the  porch  steps  around  the-  cornei  of  the  house.  A 
moment  more,  and  Judy  appeared. 

The  mountain  girl  stopped  when  she  saw  Betty  Jo, 
and  the  latter  went  to  the  top  of  the  steps. 

"Good-evening,  Judy!"  said  Betty  Jo,  quietly. 
"Won't  you  come  in  ?" 

Slowly,  with  her  black  beady  eyes  fixed  on  Betty 
Jo's  face,  Judy  went  up  the  steps. 

As  the  mountain  girl  reached  the  level  of  the 
porch-floor,  Betty  Jo  drew  a  little  back  toward  the 
door. 

Judy  stopped  instantly,  and  stood  still.  Then,  in 
a  low  tone,  she  said:  "You-all  ain't  got  no  call  ter 


321 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

be  afeared,  Miss  Betty  Jo.  You  hain't  never  goin' 
fcer  have  no  call  ter  be  scared  of  me  again,  never." 

"I  am  so  glad  for  you  to  say  that,  Judy,"  returned 
Betty  Jo,  smiling.  "I  don't  want  to  be  afraid  of  you. 
and  I  am  not  really;  but — " 

"Ain't  you-all  plumb  a-hatin'  me  for  what  I  done  ?" 
asked  Judy,  wonderingly. 

"No,  no ;  Judy,  dear,  I  don't  hate  you  at  all,  and 
you  must  know  that  Auntie  Sue  loves  you." 

"Yes,"  Judy  nodded  her  head,  thoughtfully. 
"Auntie  Sue  just  naturally  loves  everybody.  Hit 
wouldn't  be  no  more'n  nature,  though,  for  you-all 
ter  hate  me.  I  sure  have  been  poison-mean." 

"But  that  is  all  past  now,  Judy,"  said  Betty  Jo, 
heartily.  "Come  and  sit  down?"  She  started  to 
ward  the  chairs. 

But  the  mountain  girl  did  not  move,  except  to 
shake  her  head  in  refusal  of  the  hospitable  invita 
tion. 

"I  ain't  a-goin'  ter  put  my  foot  inside  this  house, 
nor  set  with  you-all,  nor  nothin'  'til  I've  said  what 
I  done  come  ter  say." 

Betty  Jo  turned  back  to  her  again  t  "What  is  it, 
Judy?" 

322 


THE  RE-CEEATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

"Auntie  Sue  done  told  me  not  ter  let  you-all  er 
Mr.  Burns  see  me  'til  she  come  back.  But  I  can't 
help  hit,  an'  if  I  don't  talk  'bout  that  none,  I  reckon 
she  ain't  a-goin'  ter  mind  so  much.  You-all  don't 
know  that  I  seed  Auntie  Sue  that  night  'fore  she 
went  away,  an'  that  hit  was  me  took  her  ter  the  sta 
tion  with  'Old  Prince/  an'  brung  him  back,  did 

you?" 

"No,"  said  Betty  Jo,  "I  did  not  know;  and  if 
Auntie  Sue  told  you  not  to  tell  us  about  it,  I  would 
rather  you  did  not,  Judy." 

"I  ain't  aiinin'  ter,"  Judy  returned;  "but  Auntie 
Sue  don't  know  nothin'  'bout  what's  happened  since 
she  went  away,  an'  hit's  that  what's  a-makin'  me  come 
ter  you-all." 

Betty  Jo,  seeing  that  the  poor  girl  was  laboring 
under  some  intense  emotional  stress,  said,  gently: 
<rWhat  is  it  that  you  wish  to  tell  me,  Judy  ?  I  am 
sure  Auntie  Sue  will  not  mind,  if  you  feel  so  about 
it." 

The  mountain  girl's  eyes  filled  and  the  tears 
streamed  down  her  sallow  cheeks,  while  her  twisted 
shoulders  shook  with  the  grief  she  could  not  sup 
press,  as  she  faltered:  "My  God-A'mighty !  Miss 

323 


THE  KE-CKEATIOX  OF  BKIAff  KENT 

Betty  Jo,  I — I — didn't  aim  ter  do  hit !  I  sure  didn't ! 
Tore  God,  I'd  er  let  'em  kill  me  first,  if  I'd  only 
had  time  ter  think.  But  hit — hit — was  me  what  told 
that  there  woman  how  Mr.  Burns  was  Brian  Kent. 
Hit's — hit's — me  what's  ter  blame  for  gittin'  her 
killed  in  the  river  an'  him  so  nigh  drowned.  O 
God !  O  God !  If  he'll  only  git  well ! 

"An'  I  ain't  a-feelin'  toward  you-all  like  I  did, 
Miss  Betty  Jo.  I  can't  no  more.  I  done  left  them 
clubhouse  folks,  after  I  knowed  what  has  happened, 
an'  all  day  I  been  hangin'  'round  here  in  the  bresh. 
An'  Lucy  Warden  she  done  told  me,  this  afternoon, 
'bout  how  you-all  was  takin'  care  of  Mr.  Burns,  an' 
how  you  just  naturally  wouldn't  let  him  die.  An' — 
an' — I  kin  see,  now,  what  hit  is  that  makes  Auntie 
Sue  and  him  an'  you-all  so  different  from  that  there 
clubhouse  gang  an'  pap  an'  me.  An'  I  ain't  a-wantin' 
ter  be  like  I  been,  no  more,  ever.  I'd  a  heap  rather 
jump  inter  the  river  an'  drown  myself.  'Fore  God, 
I  would !  An'  I  want  ter  come  back  an'  help  you-all 
take  care  of  him ;  an'  live  with  Auntie  Sue ;  an' — an' 
— be  a  little  might  like  youuns,  if  I  kin.  Will  you 
let  me,  Miss  Betty  Jo?  Will  you?  I  most  know 
Auntie  Sue  would,  if  she  was  here." 

324 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BKIAN  KENT 

Before  the  mountain  girl  had  finished  speaking, 
Betty  Jo's  arm  was  around  the  poor  twisted  shoul 
ders,  and  Bettv  Jo's  eyes  were  answering  Judy's 
pleading. 

And  so,  when  Auntie  Sue  carne  home,  it  was  Judy 
who  met  her  at  the  station,  with  "Old  Prince"  and 
the  buggy ;  and  as  they  drove  down  the  winding  road 
to  the  little  log  house  by  the  river,  the  mountain  girl 
told  the  old  gentlewoman  all  that  had  happened  in 
her  absence. 


325 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

THE  RIVER. 

KEJSTT  recovered  quickly  from  the  ef 
fects  of  his  experience  in  the  Elbow  Rock 
rapids,  and  was  soon  able  again  to  take  up  his 
work  on  the  little  farm.  Every  day  he  labored  in 
the  garden,  or  in  the  clearing,  or  at  some  task  which 
did  not  rightly  fall  to  those  who  rented  the  major 
part  of  Auntie  Sue's  tillable  acreage. 

Auntie  Sue  had  told  him  about  her  visit  to  the 
President  of  the  Empire  Consolidated  Savings  Bank, 
and  of  the  arrangement  made  by  the  banker — as  she 
understood  it — for  Brian's  protection.  But  while  the 
dear  old  lady  explained  that  Homer  T.  Ward  was 
one  of  her  pupils,  she  did  not  reveal  the  relation  be 
tween  Brian's  former  chief  and  Betty  Jo.  Neither 
Auntie  Sue  nor  Betty  Jo,  for  several  very  good  rea 
sons,  was  ready  for  Brian  to  know  the  whole  truth 
about  his  stenographer.  It  was  quite  enough,  they 
reasoned,  for  him  to  love  his  stenographer,  and  for 


326 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

his  stenographer  to  love  him,  without  raising  any 
more  obstacles  in  the  pathway  of  their  happiness. 

As  the  busy  weeks  passed,  several  letters  came 
from  the  publishers  of  Brian's  book, — letters  which 
made  the  three  in  the  little  log  house  by  the  river 
very  happy.  Already,  in  the  first  reception  of  this 
new  writer's  work,  those  who  had  undertaken  to  pre 
sent  it  to  the  public  saw  many  promises  of  the  ful 
fillment  of  their  prophecies  as  to  its  success.  When 
the  third  letter  came,  a  statement  of  the  sales  to  date 
was  enclosed,  and,  that  afternoon,  Betty  Jo  went  to 
Brian  where  he  was  at  work  in  the  clearing. 

When  they  were  comfortably,  not  to  say  cozily, 
seated  on  a  log  in  the  shade  at  the  edge  of  the  forest, 
she  announced  that  she  had  come  for  a  very  serious 
talk. 

aYes?"  he  returned;  but  he  really  looked  alto 
gether  too  happy  to  be  exceedingly  serious. 

"Yes,"  she  continued,  "I  have.  As  your  accredited 
business  agent  and — "  she  favored  him  with  a  Betty 
Jo  smile — "shall  I  say  manager  ?" 

"Why  not  managing  owner  I"  he  retorted. 

"I  am  glad  you  confirm  my  promotion  so  readily," 


327 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

she  returned,  with  a  charming  touch  of  color  in  her 
cheeks,  "because  that,  you  see,  helps  me  to  present 
what  I  have  to  say  for  the  good  of  the  firm." 

"I  am  listening,  Betty  Jo." 

"Very  well;  tell  me,  first,  Brian,  just  exactly  how 
much  do  you  owe  that  bank,  reward-money  and  all, 
and  Auntie  Sue,  interest  and  everything  ?" 

Brian  went  to  his  coat,  which  lay  on  a  near-by 
stump,  and  returned  with  a  small  pocket  account- 
book. 

"I  have  it  all  here,"  he  said,  as  he  seated  himself 
close  beside  her  again.  And,  opening  the  book,  he 
showed  her  how  he  had  kept  a  careful  record  of  the 
various  sums  he  had  taken  from  the  bank,  with  the 
dates. 

"Oh,  Brian,  Brian!"  she  said  with  a  little  cry  of 
delight,  "I  am  so  glad, — so  glad  you  have  this!  It 
is  exactly  what  I  want  for  my  wedding  present.  It 
was  so  thoughtful  of  you  to  fix  it  for  me." 

Thus  by  a  characteristic,  Betty  Jo  turn  she  made 
the  little  book  of  painful  memories  a  book  of  joyous 
promise. 

When  they  again  returned  to  the  consideration  of 


328 


*  *  *  She  made  the  little  book  of  painful  memories  a  book 
of  joyous  promise. 


THE  RE-CKEATION  OF  BRIAX  KENT 

business  matters,  Brian  gave  her  the  figures  which 
answered  her  questions  as  to  his  total  indebtedness. 

Again  Betty  Jo  exclaimed  with  delight:  "Brian, 
do  you  see  ?  Take  your  pencil  and  figure  quick  your 
royalties  on  the  number  of  books  sold  as  given  in 
the  publishers'  statement." 

Brian  laughed.     "I  have  figured  it." 

"And  your  book  has  already  earned  more  than 
enough  to  pay  everything,"  said  Betty  Jo.  "Isn't 
that  simply  grand,  Brian  ?" 

"It  is  pretty  'grand/  all  right,"  he  agreed.  "The 
only  trouble  is,  I  must  wait  so  long  before  the  money 
is  due  me  from  the  publishers." 

"That  is  exactly  what  I  came  to  talk  about,"  she 
returned  quickly.  "I  tried  to  have  it  different  when 
I  made  the  arrangements  with  them,  but  the  terms 
of  payment  in  the  contract  are  the  very  best  I  could 
get ;  and  so  I  have  planned  a  little  plan  whereby  you 
— that  is,  we — won't  need  to  wait  for  your  freedom 
until  the  date  of  settlement  with  the  publishers." 

"You  have  a  plan  which  will  do  that?"  Brian 
questioned,  doubtfully. 

She  nodded   vigorously,    with   another   Betty   Jo 


329 


THE  KE-CKEATIO^  OF  BKIAIST  KENT 

smile.  "This  is  the  plan,  and  you  are  not  to  inter 
rupt  until  I  have  finished  everything:  I  happen  to 
have  some  money  of  my  very,  very  own,  which  is 
doing  nothing  but  earning  interest — " 

At  the  look  on  Brian's  face,  she  stopped  suddenly ; 
but,  when  he  started  to  speak,  she  put  her  hand 
quickly  over  his  mouth,  saying:  "You  were  not  to 
say  a  single  word  until  I  have  finished.  Play  fair, 
Brian,  dear;  please!" 

When  he  signified  that  he  would  not  speak,  she 
continued  in  her  most  matter-of-fact  and  businesslike 
tone:  "There  is  every  reason  in  the  world,  Brian, 
why  you  should  pay  off  your  debt  to  the  bank  and 
to  Auntie  Sue  at  the  earliest  poseible  moment.  You 
can  think  of  several  reasons  yourself.  There  is  me, 
for  instance. 

"Very  well.  You  have  the  money  to  your  credit 
with  the  publishers ;  but  you  can't  use  it  yet.  I  have 
money  that  you  can  just  as  well  use.  You  will  make 
an  assignment  of  your  royalties  to  me,  all  in  proper 
form,  to  cover  the  amount  you  need.  You  will  pay 
me  the  same  interest  my  money  is  now  earning 
where  it  is. 

"I  will  arrange  for  the  money  to  be  sent  to  you  in 

330 


THE  KE-CREATIOX  OF  BRIAX  KENT 

the  form  of  a  cashier's  cheque,  payable  to  the  banker, 
Homer  T.  Ward,  so  the  name  Brian  Kent  does  not 
appear  before  we  are  ready,  you  see.  You  will  make 
believe  to  Auntie  Sue  that  the  money  is  from  the 
publishers.  You  will  send  the  cheque  to  Mr.  Bank 
President  personally,  with  a  statement  of  your  in 
debtedness  to  him  properly  itemized,  interest  figured 
on  everything.  You  will  instruct  him  to  open  an 
account  for  you  with  the  balance.  And  then — then, 
Brian,  you  will  give  dear  Auntie  Sue  a  cheque  for 
what  you  owe  her,  with  interest  of  course.  And  we 
will  all  be  so  happy!  And — and — don't  you  think 
I  am  a  very  good  managing  owner  ?  You  do,  don't 
you?" 

When  he  hesitated,  she  added :  "And  the  final  and 
biggest  reason  of  all  is,  that  I  want  you  to  do  as  I 
have  planned  more  than  I  ever  wanted  anything  in 
the  world,  except  you,  and  I  want  this  so  because 
I  want  you.  You  can't  really  refuse,  now,  can  you  ?" 

How,  indeed,  could  he  refuse? 

So  they  worked  it  out  together  as  Betty  Jo  had 
planned;  and  when  the  time  came  for  the  last  and 
best  part  of  the  plan,  and  Brian  confessed  to  Auntie 
Sue  how  he  had  robbed  her,  and  had  known  for  so 

331 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

long  that  she  was  aware  of  his  crime  against  her, 
and  finished  his  confession  by  giving  her  the  cheque, 
it  is  safe  to  say  that  there  was  nowhere  in  all  the 
world  more  happiness  than  in  the  little  log  house  by 
the  river. 

"God-A'mighty  sure  helped  me  to  do  one  good 
turn,  anyway,  when  I  jumped  inter  the  river  after 
that  there  book  when  Mr.  Burns  done  throw' d  hit 
away,"  commented  the  delighted  Judy. 

And  while  they  laughed  together,  Betty  Jo  hugged 
the  deformed  mountain  girl,  and  answered:  "God 
Almighty  was  sure  good  to  us  all  that  day,  Judy, 
dear!" 

It  was  only  a  day  later  when  Auntie  Sue  received 
a  letter  from.  Homer  T.  Ward  which  sent  the  dear 
old  lady  in  great  excitement  to  Betty  Jo.  The  banker 
was  coming  for  his  long-deferred  vacation  to  the  log 
house  by  the  river. 

There  was  in  his  letter  a  kindly  word  for  his  for 
mer  clerk,  Brian  Kent,  should  Auntie  Sue  chance 
to  see  him;  much  love  for  his  old  teacher  and  for 
the  dearest  girl  in  the  world,  his  Betty  Jo. 

But  that  part  of  Homer  T.  Ward's  letter  which 
most  excited  Auntie  Sue  and  caused  Betty  Jo  to 

332 


THE  RE-CREATIOX  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

laugh  until  she  cried  was  this :  The  great  financier, 
who,  even  in  his  busy  life  of  large  responsibilities, 
found  time  for  some  good  reading,  had  discovered  a 
great  book,  by  a  new  and  heretofore  unknown  writer. 
The  book  was  great  because  every  page  of  it,  Homer 
T.  Ward  declared,  reminded  him  of  Auntie  Sue.  If 
the  writer  had  known  her  for  years,  he  could  not 
have  drawn  a  truer  picture  of  her  character,  nor 
presented  her  philosophy  of  life  more  clearly.  It  was 
a  remarkable  piece  of  work.  It  was  most  emphat 
ically  the  sort  of  writing  that  the  world  needed.  This 
new  author  was  a  genius  of  the  rarest  and  best  sort. 
Mr.  Ward  predicted  boldly  that  this  new  star  in 
the  literary  firmament  was  destined  to  rank  among 
those  of  the  first  magnitude.  Already,  among  the 
banker's  closest  book  friends,  the  new  book  was  be 
ing  discussed,  and  praised.  He  would  bring  a  copy 
for  Auntie  Sue  and  Betty  Jo  to  read.  It  was  not 
only  the  book  of  the  year; — it  was,  in  Homer  T. 
Ward's  opinion,  one  of  the  really  big  books  of  the 
century. 

"Well,"  commented  Betty  Jo,  when  they  had  read 
and  reread  that  part  of  the  letter,  "dear  old  Uncle 
Homer  may  be  a  very  conservative  banker,  but  he 

333 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

certainly  is  more  than  liberal  when  he  touches  on  the 
question  of  this  new  author.  Won't  we  have  fun, 
Auntie  Sue!  Oh,  won't  we!" 

Then  they  planned  the  whole  thing,  and  proceeded 
to  carry  out  their  plan. 

Brian  was  told  only  that  Mr.  Ward  was  coming 
to  visit  Auntie  Sue,  and  that  he  must  be  busy  some 
where  away  from  the  house  when  the  banker  arrived, 
and  not  come  until  he  was  sent  for,  because  Auntie 
Sue  must  make  a  full  confession  to  her  old  pupil  of 
the  part  she  had  played  in  the  Re-Creation  of  Brian 
Kent  before  Homer  T.  Ward  should  meet  his  former 
clerk. 

Brian,  never  dreaming  that  there  were  other  con 
fessions  to  be  made,  smilingly  agreed  to  do  exactly 
as  he  was  told. 

When  the  momentous  day  arrived,  Betty  Jo  met 
her  uncle  in  Thompsonville,  and  all  the  way  home 
she  talked  so  continuously  of  her  school,  and  asked 
so  many  questions  about  his  conduct  and  life  and 
their  many  Chicago  friends,  that  the  helpless  bank 
president  had  no  chance  whatever  of  asking  her  a 
single  embarrassing  question.  But,  when  dinner  was 


334 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

over  (Brian  had  taken  his  lunch  with  him  to  the 
clearing),  Homer  T.  Ward  wanted  to  know  things. 

"Was  Brian  Kent  still  working  in  the  neighbor 
hood  ?" 

Auntie  Sue  informed  him  that  Brian  was  still 
working  in  the  neighborhood. 

"Betty  Jo  had  seen  the  bank  clerk?"  Betty  Jo's 
uncle  supposed.  "What  did  she  think  of  the  fellow  ?" 

Betty  Jo  thought  Brian  Kent  was  a  rather  nice 
fellow. 

"And  how  had  Betty  Jo  been  amusing  herself  while 
her  old  uncle  was  slaving  in  the  city  ?" 

Betty  Jo  had  been  doing  a  number  of  things: 
Helping  Auntie  Sue  with  her  housework;  learning 
to  cook ;  keeping  up  her  stenographic  work ;  reading. 

"Reading?"  That  reminded  him,  and  forthwith 
Mr.  Ward  went  to  his  room,  and  returned  with  the 
book. 

And  then  those  two  blessed  women  listened  and 
admired  while  he  introduced  them  to  the  new  genius, 
and  read  certain  favorite  passages  from  the  great 
book,  and  grew  enthusiastic  on  the  new  author,  say 
ing  all  that  he  had  written  in  his  letter  and  many 


335 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

things  more,  until  Betty  Jo  could  restrain  herself  no 
longer,  but  ran  to  him,  and  took  the  book  from  his 
hands,  and,  with  her  arms  around  his  neck,  told  him 
that  he  was  the  dearest  uncle  in  the  world,  because 
she  was  going  to  marry  the  man  who  wrote  the  book 
he  so  admired. 

There  were  long  explanations  after  that :  How  the 
book  so  highly  valued  by  Banker  Ward  had  actually 
been  written  in  that  very  log  house  by  the  river ;  how 
Auntie  Sue  had  sent  for  Betty  Jo  to  assist  the  author 
with  her  typewriting;  how  the  author,  not  knowing 
who  Betty  Jo  was,  had  fallen  in  love  with  his  stenog 
rapher,  and,  finally,  how  Betty  Jo's  author-lover  was 
even  then  waiting  to  meet  her  guardian,  still  not 
knowing  that  her  guardian  was  the  banker  Homer  T. 
Ward. 

"You  see,  uncle,  dear,"  explained  Betty  Jo, 
"Auntie  Sue  and  I  were  obliged  to  conspire  this  little 
conspiracy  against  my  man,  because,  you  know, 
authors  are  funny  folk,  and  you  never  can  tell  exactly 
what  they  are  going  to  do.  After  giving  your  heart 
to  a  genius  as  wonderful  as  you  yourself  know  this  one 
to  be,  it  would  be  terrible  to  have  him  refuse  you  just 


336 


THE  RE-CKEATIO  N  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

because  you  were  the  only  living  relative  of  a  rich  old 
banker ; — it  would,  wouldn't  it,  uncle,  dear  I" 

And,  really,  Homer  T.  Ward  could  find  reason  in 
Betty  Jo's  argument,  which  ended  with  that  fatal 
trick  question. 

Taking  his  agreement  for  granted,  Betty  Jo  con 
tinued  :  "And,  you  see,  Auntie  Sue  and  I  were  simply 
forced  to  conspire  a  little  against  you,  uncle,  dear, 
because  you  know  perfectly  well  that,  much  as  I 
needed  the  advantage  of  associating  with  such  an 
author-man  in  the  actual  writing  of  his  book,  you 
would  never,  never  have  permitted  me  to  fall  in  love 
with  him  before  you  had  discovered  for  yourself  what 
a  great  man  he  really  is,  and  I  simply  had  to  fall  in 
love  with  him  because  God  made  me  to  take  care  of  a 
genius  of  some  sort  And  if  you  don't  believe  that, 
you  can  ask  Judy.  Judy  has  found  out  a  lot  about 
God  lately. 

"You  won't  think  I  am  talking  nonsense,  or  am 
belittling  the  occasion  will  you,  uncle,  dear?"  she 
added  anxiously.  "I  am  not, — truly,  I  am  not, — 
I  am  very  serious.  But  I  can't  help  feeing  a  little 
excited,  can  I?  Because  it  is  terrible  to  love  a 


337 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

banker-uncle,  as  I  love  you,  and  at  the  same  time  to 
love  a  genius-man,  as  I  love  my  man,  and — and — 
not  know  what  you  two  dearest  men  in  the  world  are 
going  to  do  to  each  other." 

And,  at  this,  the  girl's  arms  were  about  his  neck 
again,  and  the  girl's  head  went  down  on  his  shoulder ; 
and  he  felt  her  cheek  hot  with  blushes  against  his  and 
a  very  suspicious  drop  of  moisture  slipped  down  in* 
side  his  collar. 

When  he  had  held  Betty  Jo  very  close  for  a  while, 
and  had  whispered  comforting  things  in  her  ear,  and 
had  smiled  over  her  shoulder  at  his  old  teacher,  the 
banker  sent  the  girl  to  find  her  lover  while  he  should 
have  a  serious  talk  with  Auntie  Sue. 

The  long  shadows  of  the  late  afternoon  were  on  the 
mountain-side  when  Brian  Kent  and  Betty  Jo  came 
down  the  hill  to  the  little  log  house  by  the  river. 

The  girl  had  said  to  him  simply,  "You  are  to  come, 
now,  Brian; — Auntie  Sue  and  Mr.  Ward  sent  me 
to  tell  you." 

She  was  very  serious,  and  as  they  walked  together 
clung  closely  to  his  arm.  And  the  man,  too,  seeming 
to  feel  the  uselessness  of  words  for  such  an  occa- 


338 


THE  KE-CEEATION  OF  BKIAN  KENT 

sion,  was  silent.  When  he  helped  her  over  the  rail- 
fence  at  the  lower  edge  of  the  clearing,  he  held  her  in 
his  arms  for  a  little ;  then  they  went  on. 

They  saw  the  beautiful,  tree-clad  hills  lying  softly 
outlined  in  the  shadows  like  folds  of  green  and  time- 
worn  velvet,  extending  ridge  on  ridge  into  the  blue. 
They  saw  the  river,  their  river,  making  its  gleaming 
way  with  many  a  curve  and  bend  to  the  mighty  sea, 
that  was  hidden  somewhere  far  beyond  the  distant 
sky-line  of  their  vision;  and  between  them  and  the 
river,  at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  they  saw  the  little  log 
house  with  Auntie  Sue  and  Homer  T.  Ward  waiting 
in  the  doorway. 

WThen  the  banker  saw  the  man  at  Betty  Jo's  side, 
his  mind  was  far  from  the  clerk  whom  he  had  known 
more  than  a  year  before  in  the  city.  His  thoughts 
were  on  the  author,  the  scholar,  the  genius,  whose 
book  had  so  compelled  his  respect  and  admiration. 
This  tall  fellow,  with  the  athletic  shoulders  and  deeply 
tanned  face,  who  was  dressed  in  the  rude  garb  of  the 
backwoodsman,  with  his  coat  over  his  arm,  his  ax  on 
his  shoulder,  and  his  dinner-pail  in  his  hand, — who 
was  he?  And  why  was  Betty  Jo  so  familiar  with 


339 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

this  stranger, — Betty  Jo,  who  was  usually  so  reserved, 
with  her  air  of  competent  self-possession?  Homer 
T.  Ward  turned  to  look  inquiringly  at  Auntie  Sue. 

His  old  teacher  smiled  back  at  him  without 
speaking. 

Then,  Betty  Jo  and  Brian  Kent  were  standing 
before  him. 

"Here  he  is,  Uncle  Homer,"  said  the  girl. 

Brian,  hearing  her  speak  those  two  revealing  words, 
and  seeing  her  go  to  the  bank  president,  who  put  his 
arm  around  her  with  the  loving  intimacy  of  a  father, 
stood  speechless  with  amazement,  looking  from  Homer 
T.  Ward  and  Betty  Jo  to  Auntie  Sue  and  back  to  the 
banker  and  the  girl. 

Mr.  Ward,  still  not  remembering  the  bank  clerk  in 
this  re-created  Brian  Kent,  was  holding  out  his  hand 
with  a  genial  smile. 

As  the  bewildered  Brian  mechanically  took  the 
hand  so  cordially  extended,  the  older  man  said :  "It 
is  an  honor,  sir,  to  meet  a  man  who  can  do  the  work 
you  have  done  in  writing  that  book.  It  is  impossible 
to  estimate  the  value  of  such  a  service  as  you  have 
rendered  the  race.  You  have  a  rare  and  wonderful 


340 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

gift,  Mr.  Burns,  and  I  predict  for  you  a  life  of 
remarkable  usefulness." 

Brian,  still  confused,  but  realizing  that  Mr.  Ward 
had  not  recognized  him,  looked  appealingly  at  Betty 
Jo  and  then  to  Auntie  Sue. 

Auntie  Sue  spoke:  "Mr.  Ward  is  the  uncle  and 
guardian  of  Betty  Jo,  Brian." 

"  'Brian'!"  ejaculated  the  banker. 

Auntie  Sue  continued:  "Homer,  dear,  Betty  Jo 
has  presented  her  author,  Mr.  Burns; — permit  me 
to  introduce  my  Brian  Kent !" 

And  Judy  remarked  that  evening,  when,  after  sup 
per,  they  were  all  on  the  porch  watching  the  sunset: 
"Hit  sure  is  dad  burned  funny  how  all  tangled  an' 
snarled  up  everythin'  kin  git  'fore  a  body  kin  think 
most,  an',  then,  if  a  body '11  just  keep  a-goin'  right 
along,  all  ter  onct  hit's  all  straightened  out  as  purty 
as  any  thin'." 

They  laughed  happily  at  the  mountain  girl's  words, 
and  the  dear  old  teacher's  sweet  voice  answered: 
"Yes,  Judy;  it  is  all  just  like  the  river,  don't  you 
see?" 

"Meanin'  as  how  the  water  gits  all  tangled  an' 


341 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAN  KENT 

mixed  up  when  hit's  a-boilin'  an7  a-roarin'  like  mad 
down  there  at  Elbow  Rock,  an'  then  all  ter  onct  gits 
all  smooth  an'  calm  like  again,"  returned  Judy. 

"Meaning  just  that,  Judy,"  returned  Auntie  Sue. 
"No  matter  how  tangled  and  confused  life  seems  to 
be,  it  will  all  come  straight  at  the  last,  if,  like  the 
river,  we  only  keep  going  on." 

And  when  the  dreamy  Indian-summer  days  were 
come  and  the  blue  haze  of  autumn  lay  softly  over  the 
brown  and  gold  of  the  beautiful  Ozark  hills,  the 
mountain  folk  of  the  Elbow  Rock  neighborhood  gath 
ered  one  day  at  the  little  log  house  by  the  river. 

It  was  a  simple  ceremony  that  made  the  man  and 
the  woman,  who  were  so  dear  to  Auntie  Sue,  husband 
and  wife.  But  the  backwoods  minister  was  not 
wanting  in  dignity,  though  hi?  dress  was  rude  and 
his  words  plain;  and  the  service  lacked  nothing  of 
beauty  and  meaning,  though  the  guests  were  but 
humble  mountaineers;  for  love  was  there,  and  sin 
cerity,  and  strength,  and  rugged  kindliness. 

And  when  the  simple  wedding  feast  was  over,  they 
all  went  down  to  the  river-bank,  at  the  lower  corner 
of  the  garden,  where,  at  the  eddy  landing,  a  staunch 
John-boat  waited,  equipped  and  ready. 

342 


THE  RE-CREATION  OF  BRIAX  KE]XTT 

When  the  last  good-byes  were  spoken,  and  Brian 
and  Betty  Jo  put  out  from  the  little  harbor  into  the 
stream,  Auntie  Sue,  with  Judy  and  Homer  T.  Ward, 
went  back  to  the  porch  of  the  little  log  house,  there 
to  watch  the  beginning  of  the  voyage. 

With  Brian  at  the  oars,  the  boat  crossed  the  stream 
to  the  safer  waters  close  to  the  other  shore,  and  then, 
with  Betty  Jo  waving  her  handkerchief,  and  the 
neighbor  men  and  boys  running  shouting  along  the 
bank,  swept  down  the  river,  past  the  roaring  turmoil 
of  the  Elbow  Rock  rapids  into  the  quiet  reaches 
below,  and  away  on  its  winding  course  between  the 
tree-clad  hills. 

"I  am  so  glad,"  said  Auntie  Sue,  her  dear  old  face 
glowing  with  love,  and  her  sweet  voice  tremulous  with 
feeling,  "I  am  so  glad  they  chose  the  river  for  their 
wedding  journey." 


THE    END. 


343 


Note. — This  biographical  sketch  of  Harold  Bell  Wright  will  give 
the  reader  a  knowledge  and  understanding  of  the  life-work,  aims 
and  purposes  of  the  author  as  expressed  through  his  books.  It  is 
reprinted  on  these  pages  in  response  to  popular  demand. — The 
Publishers. 

HAROLD  BELL  WRIGHT 

A  Biography 

BY  ELSBERY  W.  REYNOLDS 

The  biography  of  a  man  is  of  importance  and  interest  to  other 
men  just  to  the  degree  that  his  life  and  work  touches  and  influ 
ences  the  life  of  his  time  and  the  lives  of  individuals. 

Only  in  a  feeble  way,  at  best,  can  the  life  story  of  any  man  be 
told  on  the  printed  page.  The  story  is  better  as  it  is  written  on 
the  hearts  of  men  and  women  and  the  man  himself  does  the 
writing. 

He  lives  longest  who  lives  best.  He  who  carves  deepest  against 
corroding  time  is  he  who  touches  with  surest  hand  the  greatest 
number  of  human  hearts. 

He  may  or  may  not  be  a  prodigy  of  physical  strength.  He  may 
or  may  not  be  a  tower  of  mental  energy.  But  so  long  as  this  old 
world  stands  the  man  with  an  overpowering  desire  for  all  that  is 
best  for  the  race  to  be  in  the  race,  whose  life  is  in  tune  with  the 
divine  and  with  the  good  that  is  within  us  all,  whether  he  be  orator, 
writer,  artist  or  artisan,  is  a  giant  among  men. 

That  which  we  read  makes  a  deeper  and  more  lasting  impression 
on  our  lives  than  that  which  we  see  or  hear.  An  author  with  mil 
lions  of  readers  must  be  a  great  central  power  of  thought  and 
influence,  at  least,  in  his  own  day  and  generation.  We  can  under 
stand  the  truth  of  this  through  a  study  of  the  aims  and  life  purposes 
of  Harold  Bell  Wright  as  expressed  through  his  books  and  the 
circumstances  under  which  they  were  written. 

The  wonderful  popularity  of  this  author  is  well  estimated  by 
the  millions  of  copies  of  his  books  that  have  been  sold.  This  is 
also  the  greatest  testimonial  that  can  be  given  to  the  merit  of  his 
work.  The  great  heart  of  the  reading  public  is  an  unprejudiced 
critic.  "Is  not  the  greatest  voice  the  one  to  which  the  greatest 
number  of  hearts  listen  with  pleasure?" 

When  a  man  has  attained  to  great  eminence  under  adverse  cir 
cumstances  we  sometimes  wonder  to  what  heights  he  might  have 
climbed  under  conditions  more  favorable.  Who  can  tell?  It  is 
just  as  easy  to  say  what  the  young  man  of  twenty  will  be  when 
a  matured  man  of  forty.  The  boy  of  poverty  makes  a  man  of 
power  while  the  boy  nursed  in  the  lap  of  luxury  makes  a  man  of 
uneventful  life,  and,  again,  a  life  started  with  a  handicap  remains 
so  through  its  possible  three  score  years  and  ten  and  the  life 
begun  with  advantages  multiplies  its  talents  ten  and  a  hundred 
fold. 

So,  after  all,  is  not  the  heart  of  man  the  real  man  and  is  it  not 
the  guiding  star  of  his  ambition,  his  \vill,  his  determination,  his 
conscience? 

345 


Harold  Bell  Wright,  the  second  of  four  sons,  was  born  May  4, 
1872, 'in  Rome,  Oneida  County,  New  York.  From  an  earlier  biog 
rapher  we  quote  the  following: 

"Some  essential  facts  must  be  dug  from  out  the  past  where  they 
lie  embedded  in  the  detrital  chronicles  of  the  race.  Say,  then,  that 
away  back  in  1640  a  ship  load  of  Anglo-Saxon  freedom  landed  in 
New  England.  After  a  brief  period  some  of  the  more  venturesome 
spirits  emigrated  to  the  far  west  and  settled  amid  the  undulations 
of  the  Mohawk  valley  in  central  New  York.  Protestant  France 
also  sent  westward  some  Gallic  chivalry  hungering  for  freedom. 
The  fringe  of  this  garment  of  civilization  spread  out  and  reached 
also  into  the  same  valley.  English  determination  and  Huguenot 
aspiration  touched  elbows  in  the  war  for  political  and  religious 
freedom,  and  touched  hearts  and  hands  in  the  struggle  for  economic 
freedom.  Their  generations  were  a  genuine  aristocracy.  Mutual 
struggles  after  mutual  aims  cemented  casual  acquaintance  into 
enduring  friendship.  William  Wright  met,  loved  and  married 
Alma  T.  Watson.  To  them  four  sons  were  born.  A  carpenter 
contractor,  a  man  who  builds,  contrives  and  constructs,  is  joined 
to  a  woman  into  whose  soul  of  wholesome  refinement  come 
images  of  dainty  beauty,  where  they  glow  and  grow  radiant. 
With  lavish  unrestraint  the  life  of  this  French  woman  pours 
itself  into  her  sons.  The  third  child  died  in  infancy.  The  eldest 
survived  his  mother  by  some  thirteen  years.  The  youngest  is  a 
constructive  mechanical  engineer.  The  second  son  is  Harold  Bell 
Wright. 

"During  ten  years  this  mother  and  this  son  live  in  rare  in 
timacy.  The  boy's  first  enduring  impression  of  this  life  is  the 
vision  of  the  mother  bending  affectionately  over  him  while  criticis 
ing  the  water  color  sketch  his  unpracticed  fingers  had  just  made. 
Crude  blendings  and  faulty  lines  were  pointed  out,  then  touched 
into  harmony  and  more  accurate  perspective  by  her  quick  skill. 
Together  their  eyes  watched  shades  dance  on  sunny  slopes,  cloud 
shadows  race  among  the  hills  or  lie  lazily  in  the  valley  below. 

"Exuberant  Nature  and  ebullient  boy  loved  each  other  from 
the  first.  Alone,  enravished,  he  often  wandered  far  in  sheer  joy  of 
living.  He  brings,  one  day,  from  his  rambles  a  bunch  of  immor 
telles  which  mother  graciously  receives.  Twenty  years  later  the 
boy,  man-grown,  bows  reverently  over  a  box  of  withered  flowers 
— the  same  bouquet  the  mother  took  that  day  and  laid  away  as  a 
precious  memento  of  his  boyish  love.  Such  was  the  first  decade. 

"A  ten-year-old  boy,  motherless,  steals  from  harsh  labor  and 
yet  harsher  surroundings,  runs  to  the  home  of  sacred  memories, 
clambers  to  the  attic,  and  spends  the  night  in  anguished  solitude. 
This  was  his  first  Gethsemane.  For  ten  years  buffeted  and  beaten, 
battling  with  adversity,  sometimes  losing  but  never  lost,  snatching 
learning  here  and  there,  hating  sham,  loving  passionately,  mis 
understood,  misapprehended,  too  stubbornly  proud  to  ask  apologies 
or  make  useless  explanations,  fighting  poverty  in  the  depths  of 
privation,  wrestling  existence  from  toil  he  loathed,  befriending 
many  and  also  befriended  much,  but  always  face  to  face  with  the 
grim  tragedy  which  has  held  part' of  the  stage  since  Eden. 

"Such  was  the  second  decade.  The  first  was  spent  on  hill  sides 
where  shadows  only  made  the  light  more  buoyant  as  they  fled 

346 


away.  The  second  was  passed  in  the  valley  where  the  shadow 
hung  lazily  till  the  cloud  grew  very  black  and  drenched  the  soil. 

"Lured  to  college,  he  undertook  to  acquire  academic  culture. 
As  is  well  known,  college  life  with  its  professorial  anecdotes  and 
jokes,  its  student  pranks  and  grind,  is  routine  drudgery  and  cob- 
webbery  prose.  Bookish  professors  and  conventional  students 
rarely  have  just  such  an  animate  problem  of  French  artistry  and 
Bohemian  experience  to  solve.  They  did  nobly,  to  be  sure,  but 
here  was  a  mind  which  threw  over  them  all  the  glamour  of  romance." 

Mr.  Wright  entered  the  Preparatory  Department  of  Hiram  Col 
lege  at  the  age  of  twenty,  having  previously  accepted  the  faith  and 
identified  himself  with  the  Christian  Church  in  the  little  quarry 
town  of  Grafton,  Ohio.  He  continued  active  in  the  different  de 
partments  of  work  in  his  church  all  during  his  school  years  with 
the  ultimate  result  of  his  entering  the  ministry. 

Having  no  financial  means,  while  in  school  he  made  his  way 
by  doing  odd  jobs  about  town,  house  painting  and  decorating, 
sketching,  etc.  After  two  years  of  school  life,  while  laboring  to 
gain  funds  in  order  that  he  might  continue  his  schooling,  he  con 
tracted  from  overwork  and  out-door  exposure  a  severe  case  of 
pneumonia  that  left  his  eyesight  badly  impaired  and  his  constitu 
tion  in  such  condition  that,  to  the  present  day,  he  has  never  fully 
recovered. 

Air  castles  were  tumbled  and  hopes  blasted  when  his  physician 
advised  him  that  it  would  be  fatal  to  re-enter  school  for,  at  least, 
another  year.  Whereupon,  seeking  health  and  a  means  of  exist 
ence,  starting  from  a  point  on  the  Mahoning  river,  he  canoed  with 
sketch  and  note  book,  but  alone,  down  stream  a  distance  of  more 
than  five  hundred  miles.  From  this  point,  by  train,  he  embarked 
for  the  Ozark  mountains  in  southwest  Missouri.  Here,  for  some 
months,  while  gradually  regaining  his  strength,  he  secured  em 
ployment  at  farm  work,  sketching  and  painting  at  intervals. 

Once  more,  he  found  himself  on  bed-rock,  taking  his  last  cent 
to  pay  express  charges  back  to  Ohio  on  some  finished  pictures,  but, 
this  time,  fortune  smiled  promptly  with  a  good  check  by  return 
mail. 

It  was  while  in  the  Ozarks  that  Harold  Bell  Wright  preached 
his  first  sermon.  Being  a  regular  attendant  at  the  services,  held 
in  the  little  mountain  log  school  house,  he  was  asked  to  talk  to 
the  people,  one  Sunday,  when  the  regular  preacher  had  failed  to 
appear. 

From  this  Sunday  morning  talk,  that  could  hardly  be  called  a 
sermon,  and  others  that  followed,  he  came  to  feel  that  he  could 
do  more  good  in  the  ministry  than  he  could  in  any  other  field  of 
labor,  and  soon  thereafter  accepted  a  regular  pastorate  at  Pierce 
City,  Missouri,  at  a  yearly  salary  of  four  hundred  dollars.  True 
to  a  resolve,  that  his  work  should  be  that  through  which  he  could 
help  the  most  people,  he  had  now  chosen  the  ministry.  A  further 
resolve  that  he  would  give  up  this  ministry,  chosen  with  such 
earnest  conviction,  should  another  field  of  labor  offer  more  ex 
tensive  measures  for  reaching  mankind,  took  him,  in  later  years, 
into  the  field  of  literature.  He  left  the  ministry  with  many 
regrets  but  with  the  same  earnest  conviction  with  which  he  had 
earlier  chosen  it. 

347 


Following  the  publication  of  "The  Shepherd  of  the  Hills"  his 
publishers  assured  him  that  he  could  secure  greater  results  from 
his  pen  rather  than  his  pulpit  and  prevailed  upon  him  to  hence 
forth  make  literature  his  life  work.  This  was  in  every  way  con 
sistent  with  his  teaching  that  every  man's  ministry  is  that  work 
through  which  he  can  accomplish  the  greatest  good. 

In  the  battle  of  life  there  is  always  the  higher  ground  that  the 
many  covet  but  few  attain.  In  reaching  this  height  Mr.  Wright 
has  given  to  a  multitude,  his  time,  strength  and  substance,  that 
they,  too,  might  further  advance.  He  is  companionable,  loving 
and  loyal  to  his  friends.  He  hates  sham  and  hypocrisy  and  any 
attempt  to  glorify  one's  self  by  means  other  than  the  fruits  of 
one's  own  labor. 

This  boy,  who,  from  the  death  of  his  mother,  was  driven  into 
a  hand  to  hand  struggle  with  life  for  a  bare  existence,  was  neces 
sarily  forced  into  contact  with  much  that  was  vicious  and  corrupt. 
But  he  in  no  way  became  a  part  of  it.  That  same  inherent  love 
for  mental  cleanliness  and  spiritual  truths  that  has  so  distin 
guished  the  works  of  the  man  kept  the  boy  unstained  in  his  unfor 
tunate  environment. 

Mr.  Wright  resigned  his  charge  at  Pierce  City  for  the  larger 
work  at  Pittsburg,  Kansas.  In  the  second  year  of  his  pastorate — 
1899 — he  married  Frances  E.  Long  in  Buffalo,  New  York.  This 
union  of  love  had  its  beginning  back  in  the  school  days  at  Hiram. 
Unto  them  have  been  born  three  sons,  Gilbert  Munger,  1901,  Paul 
Williams,  1902,  and  Norman  Hall,  1910. 

In  Pittsburg,  Mr.  Wright  received  enthusiastic  support  from 
his  church  people.  Finances  were  soon  in  a  satisfactory  condi 
tion,  and  church  attendance  reached  the  capacity  of  the  building, 
but  still  the  young  pastor  was  not  satisfied.  Pittsburg  was  a 
mining  town,  a  young  men's  town.  A  little  city  with  saloons  and 
brothels  doing  business  on  every  hand.  His  soul  was  on  fire  for 
his  church  to  do  a  larger  work  and,  with  the  hope  of  arousing  his 
people,  he  conceived  the  idea  of  writing  "That  Printer  of  Udell's,'* 
planning  to  read  the  story,  by  installments,  on  special  evenings  of 
successive  weeks,  to  his  congregation. 

Pittsburg  was  made  the  principal  scene  and  the  church  of  the 
story  was  the  kind  of  church  he  wanted  his  Pittsburg  charge  to  be. 
The  teachings  set  forth,  through  the  preacher  of  the  story,  in  the 
latter  half  of  the  book,  are  the  identical  things  the  author  was 
preaching.  The  first  chapters  of  the  story  are  very  largely  colored 
by  Mr.  Wright's  early  life,  but  they  are  by  no  means  auto 
biographical. 

"That  Printer  of  Udell's"  was  written  without  thought  or  inten 
tion  of  offering  it  for  publication.  During  the  author's  ministry 
he  made  some  of  the  warmest  and  most  abiding  friendships  of  his 
life,  and  it  was  through  certain  of  these  friends  that  he  was  per 
suaded  from  reading  the  story,  as  intended,  but  to  offer  it  for 
publication,  giving  it,  thus,  a  wider  usefulness. 

Having  a  leave  of  absence  of  several  weeks  from  his  church 
during  the  winter  of  1901-2  he  accepted  an  invitation  from  the 
pastor  of  a  Chicago  church  to  hold  a  special  meeting,  and  it  was 
during  this  meeting  that  the  author  and  his  publisher  met  for  the 

348 


first  time.  Mr.  Wright  delivered  a  sermon  entitled  "Sculptors  of 
Life"  that  was  so  impressive  that  I  sought  him  out  with  entreaties 
to  repeat  his  sermon  as  a  lecture  to  a  certain  company  of  young 
people. 

The  acquaintance  thus  begun  very  quickly  became  one  of  friend 
ship,  without  any  knowledge  or  thought  that  it  would  in  time  lead 
to  a  co-operative  life  work,  and  when  the  author  later  offered  his 
book  for  publication  it  was  without  request  or  thought  of  financial 
remuneration.  Mr.  Wright,  however,  was  given  a  contract  paying 
him  the  highest  royalty  that  was  being  paid  for  any  author's  first 
book. 

"That  Printer  of  Udell's"  was  written  almost  entirely  in  the  late 
hours  of  the  night  and  the  very  early  hours  of  the  morning.  Great 
demands  were  being  made  on  the  author's  time  in  the  way  of 
requests  for  officiating  and  speaking  at  public  and  civic  functions 
in  addition  to  the  now  heavy  requirements  of  his  church.  His  ag 
gressive  activities,  backed  by  his  splendid  spirit,  fearlessness  and 
courage  in  combating  the  evils  of  his  little  city  made  for  him  a 
host  of  admirers,  alike,  among  his  enemies  and  friends.  When  he 
left  to  accept  a  pastorate  in  Kansas  City,  Missouri,  his  resignation 
was  not  accepted. 

After  one  year  in  Kansas  City  he  found  that  he  was  not 
physically  able  to  carry  out  the  great  city  work  as  he  had  dreamed 
it  and  planned  it,  on  a  scale  that  would  satisfy  his  longings  for 
service,  and  it  made  him  seriously  consider  whether  there  was  not 
some  other  way  that  would  more  equally  measure  with  his  strength. 
He  went  again  to  the  Ozarks,  this  time  for  rest  and  meditation, 
and  while  there  began  writing  "The  Shepherd  of  the  Hills."  This 
story  has  a  peculiar  significance  for  the  author.  He  feels  toward 
it  as  he  can  not  feel  for  any  of  his  other  books.  "The  Shepherd  of 
the  Hills"  was  written  as  a  test.  The  strength  of  the  message  he 
was  able  to  put  into  the  story  and  the  response  it  should  find  in 
the  hearts  of  men  and  women  was  to  decide  for  him  his  ministry 
henceforth,  whether  he  would  teach  the  precepts  of  the  Man  of 
Galilee  by  voice  or  pen.  It  was  a  testing  time  that  bore  fruit  not 
only  in  this  simple,  sweet  story,  that  to  quote  an  eminent  divine, 
"is  one  of  the  greatest  sermons  of  our  day,"  but  resulted  as  well 
in  the  splendid  volumes  that  have  followed. 

"The  Shepherd  of  the  Hills"  was  finished  during  the  year  of  his 
pastorate  at  Lebanon,  Missouri,  and  but  for  the  sympathy,  encour 
agement  and  helpful  understanding  of  his  church  officers  and 
membership,  it  is  doubtful  if  the  story  could  ever  have  been  com 
pleted.  When  Mr.  Wright  delivered  the  manuscript  to  his  pub 
lishers  the  first  of  the  year,  1907,  for  publication  the  next  fall,  he 
had  accepted  the  pastorate  of  the  Christian  Church  in  Redlands, 
California,  hoping  this  land  of  sunshine  would  give  him  a  larger 
measure  of  health. 

Some  months  later,  resigning  his  Redlands  pastorate,  he  went 
to  the  Imperial  Valley  and  there,  the  following  year,  wrote  "The 
Calling  of  Dan  Matthews."  The  church  and  its  problems  were 
weighing  on  the  author  and  affecting  his  life  no  less  than  when  he 
was  in  the  ministry  and  it  was  only  natural  that  he  should  give 
Y>  the  world  "a  picture  that  is  true  to  the  four  corners  of  the  earth." 
Every  incident  in  the  story  has  its  counterpart  in  real  life  and, 

3-19 


with  but  few  exceptions,  came  under  the  author's  personal  observa 
tion.  He  did  not  get  the  real  pleasure  out  of  writing  "The  Calling 
of  Dan  Matthews"  that  he  did  the  story  which  preceded  it.  But 
he  could  not,  try  as  he  would,  escape  it. 

The  publication  of  "The  Calling  of  Dan  Matthews"  in  the  fall  of 
1909  was  just  two  years  after  the  publication  of  "The  Shepherd 
of  the  Hills." 

"The  Winning  of  Barbara  Worth"  required  more  time  and  effort 
in  the  collecting  of  material  than  any  book  the  author  had  written, 
but  probably  gave  him,  at  least,  as  much  pleasure.  He  is  very 
careful  with  regard  to  descriptive  detail,  and  even  while  writing 
"The  Calling  of  Dan  Matthews"  he  was  making  a  study  of  the 
desert  and  this  great  reclamation  project.  Before  sending  his 
manuscript  for  publication  he  had  it  checked  over  by  the  best  engi 
neers  on  the  Pacific  coast  for  inaccuracies  in  any  of  his  descrip 
tions  that  involved  engineering  or  reclamation  problems. 

"The  Winning  of  Barbara  Worth"  bears  the  distinction,  with 
out  doubt,  of  being  the  only  book  ever  published  that  called  its 
publisher  and  illustrator  from  a  distance  of  two  and  three  thousand 
miles,  into  the  heart  of  a  great  desert,  for  a  consultation  with  its 
author.  This  story  of  the  Imperial  Valley  and  its  reclamation 
was  written  in  the  same  study  as  was  "The  Calling  of  Dan 
Matthews."  A  study  of  rude  construction,  about  eighteen  by 
thirty-five  feet,  with  thatched  roof  and  outside  covering  of  native 
arrow-weed  and  built  entirely  by  the  author  himself. 

When  Mr.  Wright  finished  "The  Winning  of  Barbara  Worth" — 
so  named  in  honor  of  Ruth  Barbara  Reynolds — he  was  a  sick  man. 
He  often  worked  the  night  through,  overtaxing  his  nerve  and 
strength.  For  several  months  he  virtually  dwelt  within  the  four 
walls  of  his  study  and  for  a  time  it  was  feared  he  would  not  live 
to  finish  the  book.  He  wrote  the  last  chapters  while  confined  to 
his  bed,  after  which  he  was  taken  by  easy  stages,  through  the  kind 
ness  of  friends,  to  that  part  of  Northern  Arizona  that  is  so  delight 
ful  to  all  lovers  of  the  out-of-doors.  In  this  bracing  mile-high 
atmosphere  he  soon  grew  well  and  strong,  almost  to  ruggedness, 
and  on  the  day  his  book  was  published  he  was  riding  in  a  wild- 
horse  chase  over  a  country  wild  and  rough  where  the  writer  of 
this  sketch  would  only  care  to  go,  carefully  picking  his  way,  on 
foot.  So  it  was  weeks  after  publication  before  the  author  saw  the 
first  bound  copy  of  his  book.  During  these  summer  and  fall 
months,  while  regaining  his  strength,  he  was  busy  with  sketch  and 
note  book  collecting  material,  for  this  part  of  Arizona  is  the  scene 
of  his  novel  "When  a  Man's  a  Man." 

"Their  Yesterdays"  was  written  in  Tucson,  Arizona,  and  was 
published  in  the  fall  of  1912,  just  one  year  after  the  publication  of 
"The  Winning  of  Barbara  Worth."  In  order  to  write  this  story, 
with  the  least  possible  strain  on  his  nerves  and  vitality,  Mr.  Wright 
secluded  himself  in  a  little  cottage  purchased  especially  for  this 
work.  His  material  was  collected  from  the  observations  of  his 
thoughtful  years  and  his  intimate  knowledge  of  human  hearts. 
This  book  is,  perhaps,  more  representative  of  the  real  Harold  Bell 
Wright  than  anything  he  has  done.  It  is  the  true  presentation 
of  his  views  on  life,  love  and  religion.  I  once  asked  Mr.  Wright, 
in  behalf  of  the  faculty,  to  deliver  an  address  to  a  graduating 

350 


class  of  some  twenty-odd  young  men  of  the  Morgan  Park  Academy 
(Chicago).  He  was  very  busy  and  I  suggested  that  without  special 
effort  he  make  the  commonplace  remarks  that  one  so  often  hears 
on  like  occasions.  For  the  first  time  that  I  remember  he  some 
what  impatiently  resented  a  suggestion  from  me,  saying,  "These 
young  men  are  on  the  threshold  of  life  and  the  very  best  that  is 
within  me  is  due  to  them.  I  can  give  to  them  only  such  a  message 
as  I  would,  were  I  to  stand  before  judgment  on  the  morrow." 
It  was  with  just  this  spirit  that  the  author  wrote  "Their  Yes 
terdays." 

Following  "Their  Yesterdays"  the  next  book  in  order  of  pub 
lication-was  "The  Eyes  of  the  World,"  published  in  the  fall  of 
1914.  It  was  written  in  the  same  arrow-weed  study  on  Tecolote 
Rancho  in  the  Imperial  Valley  where  he  wrote  "The  Calling  of 
Dan  Matthews"  and  "The  Winning  of  Barbara  Worth."  Being 
fully  in  sympathy  with  the  author's  purpose  in  writing  this  story, 
the  campaign  of  advertising  was  of  such  educational  character  and 
so  eventful  in  many  ways,  that  it  will  long  be  remembered  by 
authors,  publishers  and  reading  public,  and,  we  trust,  make  for 
cleaner  books  and  pictures. 

As  it  was  in  the  writing  of  "The  Calling  of  Dan  Matthews"  so  it 
was  in  the  writing  of  "The  Eyes  of  the  World,"  the  sense  of  duty 
stood  highest.  The  modern  trend  in  books  and  music  and  art  and 
drama  had  so  incensed  the  author  that  "The  Eyes  of  the  World 
was  the  result  of  his  all  impelling  desire  for  cleaner  living  and 
thinking.  As  is  true  of  all  writers,  there  are  sometimes  those  who 
fail  to  catch  the  message  in  Mr.  Wright's  books.  He  is  occasionally 
misunderstood,  and  that  was  especially  true  with  "The  Eyes  of  the 
World."  To  the  great  majority  of  people,  clean  living  and  think 
ing,  the  message  was  not  to  be  misinterpreted  and  to  them  the  book 
is  blessed.  To  that  small  minority  it  was  convicting  and,  from  a 
few  such,  it  brought  forth  condemnation  which,  in  a  fellow  author 
here  and  there,  was  pronounced  and  emphasized  by  envy  and 
jealousy.  To  critics  of  this  class  Mr.  Wright  makes  no  reply  and 
is  not  in  the  least  disturbed. 

"The  Uncrowned  King."  a  small  volume — an  allegory — published 
in  1910,  to  me,  is  one  of  the  most  delightful  of  Mr.  Wright's  books. 
Possibly,  it  has  an  added  charm  because  of  certain  peculiar  condi 
tions.  It  was  written  in  Redlands,  California,  during  the  winter 
of  1909-10,  although  the  .notion  for  the  little  volume  occurred  to 
the  author  while  living  in  Kansas  City.  It  was  one  of  those  times 
when  the  longing  and  will  to  do  a  work  greater  than  the  physical 
would  permit  seemed  almost  overpowering  when,  unconsciously 
coming  to  his  aid,  a  young  woman  talking  to  a  company  of  Chris 
tian  Endeavorers  chanced  to  remark,  "After  all,  the  real  kings  of 
earth  are  seldom  crowned."  All  through  the  evening  service 
thoughts  that  this  inspired  kept  running  through  the  author's  mind 
and  late  that  same  night  he  wrote  the  outline  which  was  only 
completed  some  years  later  and  given  to  his  publishers  to  enrich 
the  world. 

His  first  four  novels  in  order  of  publication  have  been  drama 
tized  and  enjoyed  by  thousands  from  before  the  footlights  and  it 
has  been  a  delight  to  renew  acquaintances  with  old  friends  in  this 
way.  It  remained  for  "The  Eyes  of  the  World"  to  be  the  first 

351 


of  his  books  to  be  presented  in  a  feature  production  of  motion 
pictures. 

The  likes  and  dislikes  of  Harold  Bell  Wright  are  quite  pro 
nounced.  He  is  unpretending,  cares  not  for  tne  lime-light  and 
avoids  interviews  for  the  public  press.  Loud,  boisterous  conver 
sation  is  but  little  less  offensive  to  him  than  vulgarity  in  speech  or 
action.  ^  His  friends  are  strong,  clean-minded  men  who  are  doing 
things  in  the  world  and  are  as  necessary  to  his  being  as  the  air  to 
his  existence,  and  his  generosity  to  them  is  no  less  marked  than 
his  caring  and  providing  for  his  family,  which  is  almost  a  passion. 
He  is  extremely  fond  of  most  forms  of  out-door  life.  The  desert 
with  its  vast  expanse,  fierce  solitude  and  varied  colors  is  no  less 
attractive  to  him  than  the  peaceful  quiet  of  wooded  dells,  the 
beauty  of  flowering  meadows  or  the  rugged  mountains  with  their 
roaring  trout  streams  that  furnish  him  hours  of  sport  with  rod 
and  line.  He  enjoys  hunting,  horse-back  riding  or  long  tramps 
afoot.  But  when  there  is  work  to  be  done  it  is  the  one  thing  that 
bulks  largest  and  all  else  must  wait. 

After  finishing  "The  Eyes  of  the  World,"  Mr.  Wright  em 
barked  on  the  building  of  a  home  in  the  Santa  Monica  mountains 
near  Hollywood,  California.  So  in  the  summer  of  1915  the  little 
family  of  five  began  making  their  residence  in  the  new  canyon 
home,  one  of  nature's  delightful  spots. 

Then  again,  the  author  went  into  camp  in  the  Arizona  desert 
while  writing  "When  a  Man's  a  Man."  For  he  finds  it  very  helpful 
to  live  in  the  atmosphere  of  his  story  while  doing  the  actual  writing 
and  he  also  avoids  frequent  interruption.  I  think  he  got  more  real 
enjoyment  out  of  this  story  than  any  he  has  previously  done.  It 
is  a  story  of  the  out-of-doors  in  this  great  unfenced  land  where  a 
man  must  be  a  man.  I  suppose,  too,  he  enjoyed  writing  this 
work  so  much,  partly,  because  it  comes  so  easy  for  him  to  just 
tell  a  story  without  the  intervention  of  some  nerve  racking  prob 
lem.  The  only  book  he  has  heretofore  written  that  is  purely  a 
story  is  "The  Shepherd  of  the  Hills,"  and  I  sometimes  wonder  to 
what  proportion  of  his  readers  does  this  Ozark  story  hold  first 
place.  For  all  such,  I  am  sure,  "When  a  Man's  a  Man"  will  find  a 
reception  of  special  heartiness  because  it  is  just  a  fine,  big,  whole 
some  novel  of  simple  sweetness  and  virile  strength. 

I  have  written  this  sketch  of  Harold  Bell  Wright  that  you 
may  know  him  as  intimately,  if  possible,  as  if  you  had  met  him  in 
person.  But  should  you  have  the  opportunity  of  making  his 
acquaintance  do  not  deny  yourself  the  pleasure.  If  you  are  a 
lover  of  his  books  I  am  sure  you  are  just  the  kind  of  person  that 
the  author  himself  delights  to  meet. 

"Relay  Heights,"  February  15,  1916. 


352 


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